Chanakya's Chant

Chanakya's Chant
Ashwin Sanghi's first novel, The Rozabal Line was originallypublished in 2007 under
his pseudonym, Shawn Haigins. Thebook was subsequently published in 2008 and
2010 in Indiaunder his own name and went on to become a national bestseller.
An entrepreneur by profession, Ashwin writes extensively onhistory, religion,
mythology and politics in his spare time, butwriting historical fiction in the thriller genre
is his passion andhobby. Chanakya's Chant is his second novel in the genre.
Sanghi was educated at Cathedral & John Connon School,
Mumbai, and St Xavier's College, Mumbai. He holds a master'sdegree from Yale and
is working towards a PhD in CreativeWriting.
He lives in India with his wife, Anushika, and son, Raghuvir.
Ashwin can be reached either via his blog atwww.ashwinsanghi.com, via Twitter at
www.twitter.com/ashwinsanghi,
or via Facebook at www.facebook.com/shawnhaigins.

At the heart of this novel lies a chant—a Shakti mantra that appears several times
within
this story. The young and incredibly talented music composer Ameya Naik has set
this chant to hypnotic and reverberating music reminiscent of ancient times.
Surprisingly,
it dramatically transitions into rock fusion towards the end.
The chant has been recited in Vedic tradition by the enthusiastic Kushal Gopalka and
choir. The four-minute track is divided into two segments, ancient and modern, in
keeping with the theme of this novel, which also alternates between the past and the
present.
The track is available as a free mp3 download for everyone to hear. You may
download
it at:
www.chanakyaschant.com
The YouTube video trailer of this novel is also available for viewing at the above web
link.
We hope that you enjoy listening to this mantra as much as all of us enjoyed
composing
and performing it. It brought to mind the truth in the view that the journey is
the destination.

westland ltd
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Hyderabad
500 040
23/181, Anand Nagar, Nehru Road, Santacruz East, Mumbai 400 05547, Brij Mohan
Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110 002
First published by westland ltd. 2010Copyright © Ashwin Sanghi 2010
All rights reserved
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-93-80658-67-4
Typeset by Art Works, Chennai
Printed at Thomson Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidentseither are the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead,
events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way oftrade or otherwise,
be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction

in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations incritical articles or reviews)
may be made without written permissionof the publishers.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
I am indebted to Aparna Gupta who first suggested a novel on Chanakya
to me. The embryo of the idea planted by her eventually evolvedinto this novel.
I am obliged to my wife and son who ungrudgingly tolerated my persistent absence
from their lives while I was writing this book and juggling the rest of my life.
I am beholden to my family, which supported me in my endeavours—including my
writing.
I am thankful to various authors and producers of original or derived works. A separate
acknowledgements section at the end of the narrative lists these in detail.
I am grateful to my editor, Prita Maitra, and my publisher, Gautam Padmanabhan,
without whom none of my novels—including this one—would have seen the light of
day.
I am delighted to have worked along with two very talented individuals, Kushal
Gopalka
and Ameya Naik. We could not have created the incredibly haunting audio track
of Chanakya's Chant without their labour and inspiration.
Finally, I am fortunate to be the grandson of the late Shri Ram Prasad Gupta and
grandnephew
of his brother, the late Shri Ram Gopal Gupta. Their blessings move the fingers
that hold my pen.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prologue
The old man sat propped up in his hospital bed. Monitors beepednumbers and flashed
graphs, measuring his vital signs. His frailarms had been punctured with an endless
number of needles and atube ran through his mouth into his lungs. He knew that life
wasebbing from his body but had prayed to Shakti to allow him to livelong enough to
savour the moment he had been waiting for.
The room was dark, blackout curtains having been drawn to blockout the sunlight,
except for the psychedelic illumination produced bythe moving images on television.
The duty nurse sat on a chair beside
his steel bed, dozing off intermittently. Light from the television
sparkled in the octogenarian's eyes as he watched the eighteenthprime minister of
India take the oath of office.
The incessant buzzing of his three mobile phones brought his personal
assistant, Menon, scurrying in. The patient in the adjoining room was complaining that
the relentless ringing was disturbing him.
The fifty-something secretary peeped into the room to see his employer
lying on the utilitarian bed, his gaze transfixed on the images
flashed from New Delhi. He was oblivious to the cacophony of phones. He had waited
thirty long years for this moment and was notabout to let it be obstructed by phone
calls. In any case, he couldn't talk with the damn tube in his mouth. Menon had
suggested that the phones be turned off but he had refused. I'm not ready to allow
anything—
including my own life—to be switched off before I've relishedthis moment, he thought
to himself.

The hospital in Kanpur was not equipped to deal with his condition.
Pandit Gangasagar Mishra couldn't care less. He refused tobloody die in a hospital
bed in New Delhi or Mumbai. Kanpur washome and he would go meet his maker from
his own abode and onhis own terms.
He watched the scene unfolding at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The President
was administering the oath of office to the charismatic woman.
She was dressed in her usual off-white cotton saree, trimmed with a
pale gold border, and wore no jewellery except for a pair of simple
solitaire diamond earrings. She quite obviously had the text of theoath before her on a
single sheet of paper but did not seem to needit. It was almost as if she had spent her
entire life preparing for theoccasion. With a crisp Oxonian accent she was saying, ‘I,
ChandiniGupta, do swear in the name of God that I will bear true faith and allegiance
to the Constitution of India as by law established, that I willuphold the sovereignty and
integrity of India, that I will faithfullyand conscientiously discharge my duties as prime
minister and that Iwill do right to all manner of people in accordance with the
Constitution
and the law without fear or favour, affection or ill will.’ The
doyen smiled. Without fear, favour, affection or ill will! Bollocks!
It was not possible to be prime minister without any of these, andshe bloody knew it. It
was only his opinion, though. But then, thewily Machiavelli had always believed that
any clod could have thefacts—having an opinion was an art.
He chuckled and the result was a rasping cough, a reminder of hismortality, and the
cancer that plagued his lungs. The secret servicedetail standing outside his room
heard him cough. They wonderedwhom they were protecting him from. Indeed there
were many whowanted the bastard dead but it seemed that God had other plans. Itwas
almost like Gangasagar was cocking a snook at his enemies andtelling them ‘Come
and fucking get me, but I won't be around!’ A thin film of perspiration coated his head,

the baldness of whichwas accentuated by two tufts of shocking white hair on either
side.The nurse dabbed at it with a towel. He followed her movements
with his deep, penetrating, all-seeing eyes—little video cameras thathad seen and
stored away the very worst of human behaviour in thegigabytes of his brain's hard
disk. His thin lips quivered as he gaspedfor breath, his hooked nose struggling to suck
in life-giving oxygenin spite of the tube. His skin had a pale translucent hue, like a
rareparchment in a museum, and his thin frame occupied very little ofthe bed. How
could this diminutive little man be so powerful? In the lobby outside his room stood a
posse of political associates.Pandit Gangasagar Mishra had no friends. In his world of
politicsthere were only enemies. A clutch of newspaper hounds hobnobbed with the
politicians outside hoping to get the inside scoop on Mishra's death before his death.
The old man seemed to be mumbling something, a laboured effortto get the words out.
It was his daily prayer in Sanskrit. It said, ‘Primal Shakti, I bow to thee; allencompassing
Shakti, I bow to thee; thatthrough which God creates, I bow to thee;
creative power of the Kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.’ He looked at his
protégé—now swornin as PM—fold her hands together in a humble gesture of
acknowledgement to the television cameras... and then stumble backwards.
The red stain that spread on her left shoulder—almost in slow motion—
had been fired from a Stinger .22 Magnum. The august Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapati
Bhavan descended intopandemonium. Mishra, watching the scene unfold on
television, continued chanting in Sanskrit, ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti,
Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti;
Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.’
CHAPTER ONE
About 2300 years ago
The kiss was a lingering one. She seemed to lightly graze her lipsover his, causing
little sparks of static that travelled down hisspine as he craved for the impassioned
ritual to move towards its gratifying conclusion. Her name was Vishaka—it meant
heavenly star—and she was undoubtedly a celestial creature. Her translucentivory

complexion with just a hint of aqua, her sensuous mouth, andmischievous emerald
eyes were partially covered by her cascading,silken, auburn hair as she bent over his
face, planting little pecks ofexquisite joy upon his eyes, nose and lips. Paurus lay back
on the silken bedspread in the chamber of thepleasure palace. Sounds of a veena
wafted in from the antechamberas one of the courtesans played with chords from
Raga Hindol—theraga of love. Along the north-eastern wall of the room stood a
goldenbasin that had been filled with pure rose water, and opposite stood alarge
golden lamp that had been lit with sandalwood oil. Paurus wasin a state of tender bliss.
Allowing himself to submit to Vishaka's ministrations, he sighedcontentedly. He tried to
recall which great guru had suggested thatthe path to nirvana was complete and utter
submission to the divine.Was this delectable creature anything less? He reached out
his armsto pull her face downwards towards his own while his lips soughtto quench
their thirst from her moist clove-and-cardamom scentedbreath. He was on fire.
His throat was on fire! Paurus let go of her hair in panic whileclutching at his own throat
as he felt the compound of arsenic andmercury scald his lips, tongue and throat. He
tried to scream but nosound emerged from his larynx—it had already been destroyed
by the Sankhiya poison on her lips. The ambrosial Vishaka continuedto cradle his head
in the warmth of her shapely bosom as she feltthe living breath silently escape from
him. The peacocks in the royalgarden outside continued to dance, quite oblivious to
the agony ofthe king inside. Paurus, mighty emperor of Kaikey and Magadha wasdead.
Long live the king! Pataliputra, the capital of Magadha, the great Brahmanic empire
inthe cradle of the beautiful Ganges valley in eastern Bharat lay quietat this hour. The
crocodiles in the moat surrounding the city fortwere in deep slumber and the guards
had shut the city gates for thenight. Within the town, the only activity was towards
Yama Gate,the southern quarter that housed the madiralays—the drinking taverns—
and the houses of the ganikas—the prostitutes. At the northern end of the capital,
towards the Brahma Gate, which housed thepalace and the Brahmin community, the
streets were deathly quiet. Inside a nondescript home, Chanakya listened to Vishaka
intentlyas the glow of the two oil lamps on either side of his study deskthrew ominous
streaks of alternating shadow and light on his grimycomplexion. He was a hideous-

looking man. His skin was pockmarked and his features were slightly crooked. His
clean-shavenhead was tough, black and leathery and he boasted a sandalwoodpaste
trident on his forehead. Towards the back of his head starteda long shikha—a
lock of hair maintained by most Brahmins in thekingdom. The only garment on his
body was a coarse cotton sheetand his only accessory a yagyopavita—the sacred
Vedic thread. He rarely smiled because smiling exposed his crooked teeth. He
hadbeen born with a full set of teeth—the mark of a ruler, but a clairvoyant
yogi had predicted that the boy would be even more powerful than a mere king—he
would be the most powerful kingmaker ofhis time. To many he was known as
Kautilya—the crooked one; tohis childhood acquaintances he was Vishnugupta; but to
most he wasChanakya—illustrious son of the great and learned Chanak, the
mostrenowned teacher in all of Magadha. He did not show the slightest emotion or
exuberance as he received her detailed report of the assassination. The wily old
Brahminknew that it never paid to let others perceive what one's true feelingswere.
‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead,’ he wouldoften say. But he couldn't
help laughing inwardly. The fool Paurus had allowed himself to believe that the
celestial creature in his bed was Vishaka—twinkle, twinkle, little star, indeed. Hah!
Little had the imbecile realised that Vishaka was his trained vishakanya—a
poisonmaiden. In fact, Chanakya had personally supervised the creationof an entire
army of such maidens. His secret service would identify young and nubile girls whose
horoscopes foretold of widowhood.These beautiful damsels would be sequestered at
an early age andfed a variety of poisons in graduated doses, making them immuneto
their ruinous effects. By the time each of Chanakya's vishakanyasreached puberty,
they were utterly toxic. A simple kiss with an infinitesimal exchange of saliva was lethal
enough to kill the strongestbull of a man. ‘Go tell Chandragupta that he's now emperor
of Magadha,’ thecunning Brahmin matter-of-factly instructed his venomous pupil ashis
mind wandered back to how and when the saga had started. King Dhanananda of
Magadha was in a foul mood. His Brahminprime minister, the wise Shaktar, appeared
to be lecturinghim—God's representative on earth! Shaktar wanted the king tospend
less time absorbed in winedrenched carnal pursuits, and moretime improving the lives

of Magadha's citizens. Dhanananda foundscholars such as Shaktar boring and
insufferable. He tolerated themnonetheless. Patronage of Brahmins in his council
made him appearwise. The roof of Magadha's great audience hall was supported
byeighty massive pillars. Rich furnishings and tapestries embellishedthe court of the
world's richest king. Some distance away from the palace stood a gilded Durakhi Devi
temple, a Buddhist monastery aswell as an ayurvedic hospital—signs of Magadha's
religious, materialand spiritual progress. Dhanananda looked to his right and observed
the first chair.It was reserved for the most important Brahmin in the land—theprime
minister, Shaktar. The chair was empty because Shaktar hadstood up to deliver his
sermon to the king. The pompous bastard, thought Dhanananda. They were all a
bunch of self-serving rascals,recommending the most arrogant amongst themselves as
ministers, and then using Dhanananda's money to award themselves honours,
grants and titles, while attempting to tutor him—the mightyDhanananda—on the duties
of kingship! Their hypocrisy revoltedhim. Dhanananda's eyes wandered towards his
female attendants. Women always surrounded Magadha's monarchs. They performed
various functions including guarding the king's person, controlling accessto his
chambers, tasting his food to ensure that it was not poisoned,delivering messages,
polishing his armour, entertaining him with music, bathing and dressing him, gratifying
his sexual needs, and tucking him into bed at night. Dhanananda had over a thousand
female attendants and courtesans serving him. Catlike, they were vicious and
protective of theirmaster. Dhanananda slyly winked at a delicious feline whose
curvaceous figure belied her strength and capacity to kill and she returned the favour,
smiling coyly at him. The wink was the final straw. The usually coolheaded Shaktarlost
his temper, allowing many years of pent-up anger to burst openlike stinking pus from a
festering wound. ‘O King! No woman inyour kingdom is safe anymore due to the
lecherous ways of thecourt. Girls are routinely found on the banks of the Ganges—
raped, murdered, or both. Usually their trail leads back to the royal palace!’
he thundered. Dhanananda, master of the largest standing army in the world,
was furious. ‘Hold your tongue, Shaktar, or I shall have it removed for you! You live off
my grants and think that you have the right to

come here and tell me—the most powerful emperor of the knownworld—how to do my
job?’ he shouted, white spittle bursting forthfrom his lips along with each word.
‘Rakshas! Have this rascalthrown into Nanda's Hell. Let him experience first-hand what
a painin the ass feels like,’ he ordered Rakshas, his minister for internal security.
Nanda's Hell was the infamous torture chamber in Dhanananda's prison complex. The
overseer, Girika, was a monster. Even as a childGirika had enjoyed catching and
torturing ants, flies, mice and fish.He had later graduated to torturing cats and dogs,
using hooks, nets,hot wax, boiling water and copper rods. Bloodcurdling screams
couldbe heard at all hours from the dungeons in which Girika worked,wrenching out
helpless prisoners’ teeth with metal pliers, pouringmolten copper on their genitalia and
thrusting red-hot embers intotheir rectums.
Rakshas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was his haemorrhoids acting up at the
thought of the redhot embers. He knew thathe was wedged between a rock and hard
place. Obey the monarch's orders and have the entire population brand him as the
king'spimp—which he was—or disobey the diktat and be sent to the dungeon
himself. Fond of dance, drama, music, literature and painting, Rakshas wasa cultured
and refined artiste. Being surrounded by resplendent feminine beauty in his artistic
world offered him the ability to supplyDhanananda with the most ravishing women of
the kingdom. Thiswas the key to his success with the king. The master politician
inRakshas hated open confrontation. Why did Shaktar, the foolish tightass,
have to go around stirring things up? Rakshas rose from hischair and reluctantly
commanded his guards to arrest the prime minister. Outside the gates of the royal
palace, a solitary figure was standing on a stone ledge spewing venom at
Dhanananda. ‘Citizens ofMagadha, this tyranny has continued far too long. The
imperial thug,Dhanananda, has imprisoned the only minister capable of standingup to
him. Are we going to stand here helplessly while we see a guardian of the kingdom—
the wise and illustrious prime ministerShaktar—be treated in this shameful manner?
How many more farmers have to commit suicide because the tax inspectors of
Dhananandaloot their grain? How many more soldiers must die in battle becausetheir
armour has been compromised to make wine goblets for theking's pleasure? How

many more mothers must cry over the corpsesof their violated young daughters? How
much longer are we going totolerate this evil sovereign?’ he cried.
A crowd had gathered. After all, the orator was no ordinary individual. He was
Chanak—the most respected teacher in the king-dom—father of the wise Chanakya
and a close friend and confidantof prime minister Shaktar. Kings vied with one another
to send theirsons and future princes to be trained in and educated for princelyduties by
Chanak. Inside the palace, guards had seized Prime Minister Shaktar andhad whisked
him off through a series of secret passages to the dungeons. Rakshas had quietly
instructed the lieutenant that Shaktarwas to be treated decently and that Girika was to
keep his handsoff. ‘Tell Girika that I will personally rip off his balls, roast them
likechestnuts, and make him eat them for breakfast if he so much as
touches a hair of the prime minister!’ he had hissed to the lieutenant. Rakshas had
been contemplating his next move when the commander of the royal guards rushed in
and sought a word with theking. The visibly shaken commander nervously revealed the
newsthat a large crowd was gathered outside the palace and was beingincited to revolt
by Chanak. Dhanananda flew into a fit of rage. His face contorted and theveins in his
neck throbbed to the drumbeat of the guards marchingoutside. ‘Kill the son of a whore!
I want Chanak's head chopped offand displayed along the banks of the Ganges. Now!’
he shrieked. Thehapless commander scurried off to obey his whimsical leader's royal
edict for fear of his own head being served up on a plate at thedinner table and being
sampled by one of Dhanananda's courtesan tasters. ‘He's dead, Vishnugupta. I am
sorry for your loss, my son. The king'sspies are everywhere. You must flee. They'll be
looking for you,’ explained Katyayan, a minister in Dhanananda's cabinet and a
loyalfriend of Chanak. While in court, he had heard the news of Chanak's
slaying and had quickly hurried over to warn Chanak's son, Vishnugupta.
‘But if I flee, who shall take care of my mother? She's too old togo anywhere,’ began
the boy.
‘I shall look after her, don't worry,’ said the gentle and assuringKatyayan.

‘And Suvasini?’ asked Vishnugupta. Suvasini was the daughter ofthe imprisoned prime
minister Shaktar and had been Vishnugupta'schildhood crush. ‘I shall take care of
everyone else if you will simply take care ofyourself, Vishnugupta,’ said Katyayan
impatiently. The blank expression on Vishnugupta's face startled Katyayan.
There was no sign of either dejection or anguish. ‘Do not call meVishnugupta,’ said the
proud and angry boy to Katyayan. ‘Fromtoday onwards the only identity I have is that
of Chanakya—son ofthe noble Chanak!’ It was amavasya—the darkest night of the
fortnight—and Chanakyahad waited patiently for two whole days to carry out the plan
suggested by Katyayan. He had rubbed a mixture of charcoal and oilall over his body
until he was jet black. The complete absence ofmoonlight and his shadowy
appearance meant that he could moveabout stealthily along the unlit banks of the
Ganges without beingobserved. He followed Katyayan's precise instructions on how to
locate thebanyan tree along the riverbank. It was a sacred tree that would
beworshipped on festivals and—aware of this—Dhanananda's guards had hung
Chanak's head on the branches of this particular one,knowing that ordinary people
would not touch it. Having reachedthe banyan, Chanakya ignored the oil lamp at its
base and startedclimbing the massive trunk. A foul stench soon guided him to thepoint
where he could see his beloved father's head hanging like aghoul from a branch to
which his single lock of hair had been tied. Chanakya felt tears well up in his eyes as
he saw his father'ssevered head swinging to the eerie whistling winds. His father's
eyeswere wide open and there were gaping holes in both cheeks whereinsects had
already started feasting. His mouth was firmly clenchedshut, a silent reminder of one of
his favourite—and now unfortunately ironic—maxims: ‘A man who opens his mouth too
often mayend up meeting a tragic end, either from indigestion or execution!’ Chanakya
steadied himself, clambered up the branch and swiftlyuntied the shikha. As gently as
possible, he lifted the head, cradled itin his arms and reverentially kissed the crown.
His tears were in fullflood and rained upon his father's skull. He had not wept until
thismoment but he silently promised himself that this would be the onlyoccasion on
which he would allow himself to cry; Chanakya wouldmake others cry. They would pay
for what they had done. His tearswould be paid for in blood. He quickly scampered

down the tree and wrapped his father'shead in fresh muslin that he had brought with
him. He then tiedthe muslin to his upper torso and jumped into the dark and
ominousriver. The shock of the freezing cold water took a few minutes tosubside and
he was soon making his way with firm strokes acrossthe Ganges to the little Durga
temple that lay across on the oppositebank. Katyayan had bribed the royal guards to
part with Chanak's bodyand had secretly arranged for the remains to be transported
tothe temple grounds. According to Hindu custom, a corpse had tobe cremated before
sundown, but the circumstances of Chanak's death meant that tradition would have to
be given the go-by. IfDhanananda ever caught a whiff of the fact that Chanakya was
cremating Chanak, he would not hesitate to send his cronies after theboy.
Emerging drenched from the strong current, he found the priest,a fearsome hunchback
clad in a blood-red sheet, waiting for him onthe riverbank. He was holding a flaming
torch and silently gesturedto Chanakya to follow him to the funeral pyre that had been
prepared. Wordlessly, he took the muslin containing Chanak's head andplaced it along
with the rest of the body enclosed in the pyre. Hehanded over a bundle of burning
grass to Chanakya and asked himto circumambulate the body once and to light the
pyre thereafter. Asflames enveloped Chanak's body, the priest handed him a
bambooand asked him to smash the corpse's head—supposedly an act thatwould free
Chanak's soul trapped inside. As the flames ebbed, the priest instructed Chanakya to
take another dip in the Ganges and gave him a dry set of ochre robes towear. Bathed
and dressed, Chanakya took the small bundle that thepriest offered him. It was a
parting gift left for him by Katyayan. Itcontained a small dagger for his protection, fifty
gold panas for his sustenance, and a letter to the dean of Takshila University.
Located over nine hundred miles away in the distant northwest,Takshila was the
world's first university. It had been established almost three hundred years previously
and graduated over ten thousand students each year in more than sixty subjects.
Chanakya began the long and arduous trek that would take over a
year.

CHAPTER TWO
Present Day
The dusty Birhana Road of Kanpur was a foodie's delight at mosttimes of the day.
Little roadside shops served mouth-wateringsnacks—golgappas, aloo tikki, dahi
kachori—sweet-and-sour savouries made from the unhealthiest ingredients that one
could imagine:deepfried potatoes, refined flour, sugar, and salt. The fullfrontal
cholesterol attack did not usually deter gourmands from further exploringthe sweet
shops that sold laddoos, barfis, kulfi, jalebis, malaimakkhan, gulab jamuns and a
hundred other syrupy, sticky and sinfuldesserts. Traffic clogged the street at all times
of the day—autorickshaws spewing thick black fumes, cars, scooters, handcarts,
buffaloes, cows, and humans. The air was dirty but excitingnonetheless. Smells of
sweat and urine mingled with carbon monoxide, fried food, and incense from the
temples that surrounded the area.In one of the bylanes of Birhana Road was a building
that had seenbetter days and was struggling to remain standing. Inside it, a rickety
staircase led to a second-floor flat occupied by Pandit GangasagarMishra, Kanpur's
foremost professor of history. Freshly bathed anddressed in a simple white cotton
kurta-pyjama, Panditji was busy with his morning prayers. He sat on his prayer mat
facing east—the direction of the rising sun—and offered flowers, incense and
sandalwoodpaste to the little silver deities that stood inside his mini-temple. Having
said good morning to his gods, he walked down the shaky staircase
and out into the street. It was obvious that Panditji had been a handsome man in
hisyouth. He had aristocratic features, a broad forehead, and an aquilinenose. He was
extremely fairskinned but rather short. His short stature, however, was misleading—
like Napoleon's. The hair on his head hadfallen off almost entirely, and Panditji
preserved the few remainingstrands lovingly by combing them across his head from
left to right. The next thirty minutes would be occupied in a brisk walk downto Motijheel
Chauraha, where a tea vendor with the rather unexciting name—Banarsi Tea House—
would keep Panditji's tea ready andwaiting. Panditji's manservant had often

complained that he couldmake better tea at home but Panditji liked the morning walk
as wellas the bonhomie of the tea stall where he was part of the regularmorning crowd.
He would then stroll over to his newspaper vendortwo shops away, and buy his day's
information fix. Another thirtyminutes later he would be back home, retiring to his living
roomwhere he would spend the next two hours poring over newspapersfrom all over
the country. His newspaper vendor had developed anetwork through which
newspapers from Mumbai, New Delhi, Kolkata and Chennai could be supplied to
Panditji each morning, in addition to the local Kanpur and Lucknow ones.
‘But Panditji, why do you read so many papers?’ the lad had askedcuriously one day.
Panditji had answered, ‘Because I need to knoweverything that happens in the
country. How else can I rule it?’ Theboy had not replied, shaking his head in disbelief.
By ten in the morning, Panditji was ready to receive his first visitors of the day. His
secretary, a sharp Keralite—Menon—had arrived and was sorting out Panditji's mail.
The professor of historyhad another, even more important, facet to his life. He was the
president of the Akhil Bharat Navnirman Samiti—abbreviated to ABNS
by journos who could never quite remember the entire name. Panditji
had launched the political outfit several years earlier and it hadgrown from a fledgling
struggling non-entity into a mainstream political party that few could ignore.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Menon, efficiently handing a one-inchthick dossier containing
the day's relevant papers to Pandit Gangasagar Mishra. ‘Morning, Menon,’ said
Panditji, ‘at what time have youasked Chandini to meet me?’ ‘She'll be here by eleven,
sir. She's bringing the Opposition MLAswho wish to defect,’ said Menon, smiling. He
knew that the day wasa momentous one. It was the day that the ABNS would topple
theexisting state government of Uttar Pradesh, India's most populousstate—and the
key to holding power in New Delhi—and instal itsown chief minister. The man behind it
all was an unassuming Panditwho drank tea at Banarsi Tea House every morning and
liked to callhimself a history teacher. His close acquaintances knew that Pandit
Gangasagar Mishra wasnot interested in teaching history. He was interested in

creating it. Gangasagar was born in 1929 in Cawnpore—the anglicised name
forKanpur—a sleepy town nestled on the banks of the river Ganges.
Kanpur had originally been Kanhapur, named after Kanhaiya—another
name for Krishna, the hero of the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata.
The British came along and decided that Cawnpore sounded betterafter they turned
the town into a garrison with barracks for seventhousand sepoys. The sepoys mutinied
in 1857. Quite possibly theydidn't like the new name. Gangasagar's father—Mishraji—
was a poor Brahmin who eked outa living from teaching at the local governmentsubsidised
schoolon the banks of the river. When his son was born, his third child
after two daughters, he decided to name him Gangasagar—as vast as the
Ganges. Gangasagar's mother was a simple woman, perpetuallystruggling to meet the
most basic daily needs of the family. Ganga,however, was her pet. In a society that
treated sons as assets anddaughters as liabilities, Ganga was the single item on her
balancesheet that squared off the dowry that she would have to pay for herdaughters’
weddings. She would smilingly forego her own meals justto ensure that Gangasagar
was well fed. As per Hindu custom, Brahmins were usually in demand duringthe
fortnight of shraadh, when wealthy families would feed them andclothe them in
memory of their ancestors. One of Mishraji's wealthy patrons was a trader—Agrawalji.
Little Ganga always looked forwardto eating at his house during shraadh. There would
always be unlimited quantities of sweet rice pudding along with the meal. One day,
as they were eating at Agrawalji's house, Gangasagar asked his father, ‘Father,
shraadh is all about remembering one's ancestors, right?’ ‘Yes, son. By feeding
Brahmins, one symbolically feeds the spiritsof the departed.’ ‘So you too shall die one
day?’ asked Gangasagar sadly. Mishraji smiled. All parents desperately wanted their
children tolove them and Mishraji was no exception. His heart swelled withpride to see
his son's concern for him. ‘Yes, Ganga. Everyone has to die someday, including me.’
Gangasagar looked crestfallen. Tears welled up in his eyes as hetook another gulp of
the wonderfully sweet rice pudding seasonedwith almonds and raisins. Mishraji's heart
melted. He tried to alleviate the obvious grief that he seemed to have caused his son.

‘Why doyou want to know about such things, Ganga?’ ‘I was just wondering, when you
die, will we still be able to comeover to Agrawalji's for rice pudding?’ Mishraji managed
to scrape together enough money to send Gangasagar to a slightly better school than
the government-funded one atwhich he taught. He asked Gangasagar to be always on
his very bestbehaviour. He couldn't afford any other school in Kanpur. On his very first
day at the new school, Gangasagar's teacherasked him to stand up and answer some
questions. The supremelyconfident Gangasagar was happy to oblige. The older
studentswinked at each other, expecting a furious interrogation. ‘Who was the first
president of America?’ asked the headmaster. ‘George Washington,’ replied
Gangasagar. ‘Very good. History tells us that he did something naughty in
hischildhood. What was it?’ ‘He chopped down his father's cherry tree.’
‘Excellent, Gangasagar. History also tells us that his father did notpunish him. Any idea
why?’ ‘Because George Washington still had the axe in his hand?’ askedGangasagar
as he sat down. Within a few months he was grading papers for the headmaster
andwas his favourite pupil. School was about to break for Diwali vacations.
Exams had just concluded and Gangasagar was helping hisheadmaster mark
examination papers in history—his favourite subject. He laughed at the ridiculous
answers proffered by some of hisclassmates. ‘Ancient India was full of myths which
have been handed downfrom son to father. A collection of myths is called mythology.’
‘The greatest rulers were the Mowglis. The greatest Mowgli wasAkbar.’ ‘Then came
the British. They brought with them many inventionssuch as cricket, tram tarts and
steamed railways.’ ‘Eventually, the British came to overrule India because there
wastoo much diversity in our unity. They were great expotents and impotents.
They started by expoting salt from India and then impotingcloth.’ One of the more
difficult questions related to Chanakya, the wiseguru of Chandragupta Maurya. The
question was ‘Explain whetherChanakya's treatise on political economy—the
Arthashastra—was his own work or whether it was simply an aggregation of
previously-

held views.’ One of the bright but lazy students had written, ‘OnlyGod could know the
answer to this particular question given thatChanakya is dead. Happy Diwali.’
Gangasagar wrote in the margin, ‘God gets an A-plus, you get anF. Happy Diwali to
you too!’ It was to be Mishraji's last Diwali. Life had dealt him exceptionallyharsh blows
and the stress had eventually taken its toll. At the ageof fifteen, Gangasagar was left
fatherless with an ageing mother andtwo sisters, both of marriageable age. He knew
that he would needto drop out of school, forget about college, and find work. His
firstport of call was Agrawalji, his father's patron who had always treatedGangasagar
kindly. The mansion of Agrawalji was located in a wooded and secludedcorner of
Kanpur, along the bank of the river Ganges. The ten-bedroom house stood on a
tenacre plot with a private riverbank whereten Brahmins performed sacred rituals each
day to make sure thatthe Agrawal family remained constantly blessed with good
fortunefor the next ten generations. Agrawalji's father had made the family fortune
during the cottonboom of 1864 and had become one of the most famous figures inthe
Kanpur Cotton Exchange, the nerve centre of cotton trading. During the American Civil
War, Britain had become disconnected fromits usual cotton supplies and had turned to
India to meet its cotton requirements. Cotton speculation became hectic and frenzied,
and trading would continue till late hours of the night while merchants would await
information on international cotton prices priorto closing their trading positions. Senior
Agrawal loved the speculation. Unknown to most people of that time, however, he was
nospeculator. He owed his wealth to a simple technology known as theMorse Code.
The wily market operator had employed two gentlemen, one in New York and the other
in Tokyo. The employee in NewYork would relay cotton prices using Morse Code to
the employee inTokyo who, in turn, would relay the prices to senior Agrawal in Kanpur,
also in code. The result was that the senior Agrawal knew theprices almost an hour
before the others. Sixty minutes of pure arbitrage each day was the secret to the
immense Agrawal fortune, notmindless speculation. Senior Agrawal was succeeded by
his son who inherited his father's cunning and raw intelligence. While the father had
used theAmerican Civil War to further his business interests, Junior used the

Second World War to do precisely the same. The British colony ofIndia would provide
over two-and-a-half million men and spend anastounding eighty per cent of its national
income on the British wareffort, and the man who would provide most of these supplies
athefty margins would be Agrawal junior. But Agrawalji was by nomeans on the British
side. He was a shrewd man who had foreseen the future. He knew that it was only a
matter of time before the British would have to quit India, and in anticipation of that
event hemade sure he doled out large donations to the freedom struggle too.
When Gangasagar was a little boy, Mahatma Gandhi had visitedKanpur and stayed
with Agrawalji. Gandhiji had come from Allahabad to attend the fortieth annual session
of the Indian National Congress. A crowd of twenty-five thousand people had
gatheredat Kanpur Railway Station to receive him. Agrawalji had escortedGandhiji
home. Mishraji had volunteered that little Gangasagar remain by Gandhiji's side to take
care of him during his visit. Agrawaljihad readily agreed.Gandhiji then delivered a
speech at the famous Parade Ground ofthe city and appealed to the throngs of people
gathered to supportthe non-cooperation movement and make it a huge success.
Duringa private moment after the event, Agrawalji asked the great leader,
‘Bapu, what gives you the conviction that you'll be able to fight theBritish?’
Mahatma Gandhi smiled. He said, ‘We shall win because we're in
the third stage of our four-stage struggle.’ ‘The four-stage struggle?’ wondered aloud
Agrawalji. ‘First, they ignore you, second, they laugh at you, third, they fightyou, and
fourth—you win. That's the fourth stage, my friend, Agrawal,’
said the Mahatma simply. The little boy pressing Gandhiji's feetlistened to the wise
leader very carefully. He hesitantly asked, ‘Bapu,the British have guns and policemen.
I'm but a little boy. How can Ifight them? They are so much stronger!’

Mahatma Gandhi fondly placed his hand on little Ganga's headand said, ‘Strength
does not come from physical capacity. It comesfrom an indomitable will. I can see that
you have it, son.’ From that day on, Gangasagar knew that one day he would
alsopossess the power to make or break empires. Gangasagar sat before Agrawalji
uneasily. He was dressed in Westernclothes but they sat uncomfortably on him. His
sideburns were longand wide at the bottom, Elvisstyle. His prominent nose
providedample parking space for a pair of very thick-framed spectacles. Hishair was
oiled back with a very visible parting towards his left. Hewore a dull full-sleeved shirt
that hung out of bellbottomed trousersthat had seen better days. He was clean-shaven
and had fair skin butwas rather short, just a little over five feet in height and was
wearing shoes that were at least two sizes too big for him. ‘I didn't knowwho else to
turn to,’ said the young Gangasagar hesitantly. ‘Sir, I washoping that you could give
me a job. I'll do whatever you ask of me,I promise I'll work hard. Please help me,’ he
pleaded. Agrawalji took a puff of his saffron-and-cardamom-flavoured tobacco
hookah and smiled at the youth. ‘I don't have sons of my own,Gangasagar. I'll hire you
but I'll drive you like a slave. Your salaryshall be twenty-five rupees per month.
Agreed?’ ‘You shall not regret this, sir. I am indeed blessed with good luck.’
‘Yes, I do believe in good luck, son. And I find that the harder Iwork, the more I have of
it,’ Agrawalji joked.
The very first lessons were in bookkeeping and accountancy.Agrawalji's books were
maintained by his trusted Marwari munim—his treasurer—who was given the task of
explaining the intricacies of double-entry bookkeeping to the young man.
‘Gangasagar, what's two plus two?’ asked the munim on the firstday.
‘Four,’ answered Gangasagar.
‘Wrong answer. I'll give you another try later.’
Several days later they had progressed to maintenance of primarybooks, ledger
posting, and trial balance preparation. The munimonce again asked him, ‘Gangasagar,
what's two plus two?’ ‘Four,’ answered Gangasagar.
‘Incorrect. You'll have another chance to answer it correctly.’

A few weeks later they had covered income recognition, expenseestimation, and
finalisation of the profit-and-loss statement. ‘Your final chance. What's two plus two?’
asked the munim. The frustrated lad snapped, ‘It's whatever you want it to be!’
‘Correct answer,’ laughed the munim. ‘You've finally understood.the beauty of
accounting!’
Profit was in the Agrawal blood. Anything that could possibly bebought and sold for a
profit was of interest to Agrawalji. Gangasagarsoon realised that he was in the hands
of a master teacher. One day,he sat in on a conference between Agrawalji and his
munim. ‘Munimji, why aren't we trading in jute?’ ‘The margins are terribly low, sir. Not
worth the effort.’ ‘But why not export it?’ ‘Export prices are even lower than our
domestic purchase prices.We'll end up buying the stuff and exporting it at lower prices.
It's aloss-making proposition, sir.’ ‘But what if we exported jute waste instead, and
labelled it asjute? It is jute after all.’ ‘But sir, who'll buy rubbish from us?’
‘I will.’
‘What exactly do you suggest, sir?’
‘What if we get Agrawal Hong Kong to buy your rubbish? Youcould buy jute waste here
in India—which costs virtually nothing—and sell it to our own foreign subsidiary as
jute.’ ‘But the profit will be fictitious. Our Indian arm would show aprofit while the
foreign arm would show a loss. It would still be azero-sum game.’
‘Not really, munimji. The government is offering import licencesof equal value as
incentives if we export the stuff. We may not necessarily make money on the
transaction but we'll rake it in with thepremium on the import licences!’
Gangasagar vowed to himself that he would work overtime to acquire
the raw cunning of his mentor. One morning, Agarwalji was taking a walk. His usual
route went byhis office. It was a cold wintry dawn and most of Kanpur was stillasleep.
The security guard outside saluted smartly as his boss strodetowards him.
‘Ram Ram, saheb,’ he said.
‘Ram Ram, Gauriprasad,’ said Agrawalji. ‘Why are the lights on inthe office? Who
could possibly be inside at this hour?’ ‘Gangasagarji switched them on,’ said the guard.

‘Gangasagar comes to the office so early in the morning?’ askedthe incredulous
Agrawalji. ‘No, saheb. On most days he doesn't come in early,’ answeredGauriprasad.
‘Good! He has a mother and two sisters at home. He ought tospend some time with
them, too,’ said Agrawalji.
‘No, no, saheb. He doesn't come in early on most days because hedoesn't leave the
office on most nights.’ Gangasagar was with his boss in his office, discussing an idea.
Agrawalji always had profitable ideas, the latest one revolvingaround gold. The Second
World War had concluded and Agrawaljihad reason for optimism.
‘The American dollar has always been linked to the value of gold.
Till recently, a troy ounce of gold was worth twenty dollars, but therecent world war has
changed all that. The dollar has now been devalued
and the price of one troy ounce is now thirty-five dollars,’
said Agrawalji.
‘So?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘What it means, Gangasagar, is that a dollar is worth one-thirtyfifth
of an ounce of gold.’
‘How's that an opportunity?’
‘Even though the American government has pegged the value of
the dollar to gold, the intrinsic value of the dollar will continue tofall as they print more
money to finance the war deficit.’
‘And?’
‘And as the intrinsic value of the dollar falls, the intrinsic value of
gold must increase.’
‘So there's an opportunity in this?’
‘Not just an opportunity—an arbitrage opportunity!’
‘I don't understand.’
‘Simple. If I own a dollar, I should be able to exchange it for onethirtyfifth
of an ounce of gold, right?’
‘Right.’

‘But the value of that fraction of an ounce of gold is intrinsicallymuch more than the
value of the dollar, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So, if we keep buying dollars and selling them in exchange for theofficial gold value,
what happens?’
‘We're in profit?’
‘Right. So what are you waiting for?’
Agrawalji earned his company millions by arbitraging the dollaragainst gold.
Gangasagar watched, listened and absorbed.
On another occasion it was cotton-trading. India had gained its independence
from the British a few years earlier and a new governmentwas running things.
‘The new industries minister plans to nationalise textile mills,’ saidAgrawalji casually
one day.
‘We're not affected. We're traders, not textile manufacturers,’
replied Gangasagar cautiously.
‘You're wrong, it does affect us. The industry will go into a slump.’
‘So?’
‘The price of cotton will fall.’
‘And how does this concern us?’
‘Short-sell cotton.’
‘Huh?’
‘Sell cotton today and buy it later at a lower price.’
‘But if nationalisation happens immediately, there won't beenough time to handle both
sides of the transaction efficiently, sir.’
‘We must make sure the minister enacts his drama of nationalisation
a little later.’
‘How?’
‘We show him how he can partner us in this profitable scheme.’
Gangasagar began to understand the incestuous relationshipbetween business and
politics.

It was late in the evening. Gangasagar was on his way out of the office
when Agrawalji called him in to his cabin. ‘The planning commission
has announced that over the next five years the country shallinvest heavily in dams,
roads and bridges,’ he announced.
‘But we're not in the construction business,’ Gangasagar gently reminded
his mentor.
‘Then let's get in.’
‘But it's a very specialised industry. We're traders, sir. We don'tknow the first thing
about construction.’
‘Just incorporate the company. Allot ten per cent of the shares toLakshmi & Co.
Register the company's name with suppliers of steeland cement.’
‘Why?’
‘You can start placing orders for construction materials.’
‘But we do not have any projects! Why would we buy materialswithout projects in
hand?’
‘Because we plan to sell the construction outfit a year later.’
‘But who will buy a construction firm with no projects?’
‘Any of the other construction firms, because ours will be one of
the very few that has huge stockpiles of cement and steel, both ofwhich will be in very
short-supply!’
‘And what if the finance minister accuses us of hoarding?’
‘How can he do that? His son-in-law owns Lakshmi & Co.’
‘I need you to go to Patna,’ said Agrawalji to Gangasagar.
‘I'm at your command, sir,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Don't you want to know why?’ asked his mentor.
‘If it's important, you'll tell me,’ replied the young man.
‘As you know, Patna is the state capital of Bihar. Bihar is rich in
mineral deposits, particularly iron ore.’
‘And?’
‘The government is handing out mining concessions. We need to

own a piece of the action.’
‘And what is it that you want me to do, sir?’
‘The government doesn't seem to know where the deposits are. I
need to know what lies beneath before
I bid, not after.’
‘You want me to take a shovel and dig for iron ore?’
‘No. I need you to go meet a friend of mine who used to be em
ployed as a fighter pilot with the RAF. He lives in Patna.’
‘We plan to drop bombs to open up the earth?’
‘Enough with the sarcasm, Ganga. You'll see why you need him.
It's a wonderfully simple and elegant solution.’
Squadron Leader Mohanlal was a typical scotch-and-soda gentleman.
Whisky was his elixir of life, his thick white bushy moustache providing
the perfect filter for whatever he drank. He had learned to fly atthe Delhi Flying School
and had been employed as a pilot for the Indian
Post when he was requisitioned by the British Royal Air Forceas part of a twenty-fourmember
Indian squad that would fly Hurricanes into Germany.
On his last sortie he had suddenly found his entire dashboardmissing. He hadn't
noticed because of the ruckus made by the engine.
Black smoke and oil had started emanating from his Hurricane's engine
at eighteen thousand feet over the English Channel. At seventhousand feet he was
advised by ground control to bale out over thechannel. A boat would pick him up.
‘Don't send the boat,’ he had replied over the crackling radio.
‘Why?’ asked the operator. ‘Because I can't fucking swim, that's why!’
he shouted. Mohanlal had soon glided towards the white cliffs ofDover but as soon as
he opened up his airplane's landing gear, theHurricane burst into flames. He managed
to crash-land and had to bedragged from the burning wreckage. He hated the hospital
food but loved his nurse and the scotch. He soon realised that scotch never
changed its mind the way the nurse did.
After the war ended, Mohanlal returned to India with a rather generous

pension from the RAF that enabled him to start up a limitedroute
air charter service using an old Hawker Hart. It was to lead tothe wonderfully
simple and elegant solution that Agrawalji spoke of.
‘See? That's Patna city below you,’ bellowed Mohanlal as the sputtering
Hawker Hart lurched once more. Gangasagar was ready to throwup his breakfast, and
cursed both Agrawalji and Mad Mohanlal forplacing him there at five on a bitterly cold
morning. The plane seatedthe two men one behind the other.
‘Can you see those ruins, south of the railway lines? That's Kumhrar—
the ruins of the ancient city of Pataliputra from which Patnaderives its name,’ yelled
Mohanlal, oblivious to the discomfort ofhis first-time air traveller. Both men were
wearing B-8 goggles withRAF helmets, A-2 bomber jackets and 1941 RAF Mae West
parachutebackpacks. Gangasagar peered nervously over the side of the aircraftto see
what Mohanlal was pointing out.
‘Pataliputra was the capital of Chandragupta Maurya's massiveempire two thousand
three hundred years ago. Difficult to imagine,
given the pathetic state of Patna, eh?’ he barked as he turned thenoisy machine
northwards to follow the river.
‘The city is located along the south bank of the Ganges but the entire
region is rich in iron ore. The trick lies in figuring out what thegovernment hasn't yet
done—identify exact locations!’
Gangasagar muttered some obscenities under his breath, thankfulthat the din of the
engine would prevent the pilot from picking upon his utterances.
‘Around the world, there's been a phenomenal increase in the useof geophysical
techniques in mineral exploration. What I've got herewith me up front is a piece of
technology called a magnetometer.
There are only a few of them in the world. Your boss managed to get
one through his American contacts. It's bloody incredible!’ exclaimedMohanlal.
‘So how does this thing work?’ shouted Gangasagar, ignoring thesensation of his
breakfast sloshing around inside his belly.

‘What this thing does is measure the relative magnetic attraction of different parts of
the earth's surface. Iron oxide gives the strongestmagnetic pull of any mineral. So
when we fly over mineral depositswe should see a definite variation in the magnetic
pull,’ explainedMohanlal, his voice partly drowned by the roar of the propellers andthe
ominous wobbling of the engine.
‘We're going down!’ screamed Mohanlal as the Hawker Hart lost altitude
rapidly. Gangasagar cursed Mohanlal, then Agrawalji and thenhis own luck—in that
order. For a moment he had thought thatthe crazy pilot was playing a vicious joke on
him but within a fewseconds he realised that it was no joke. The airborne junk heap
wascollapsing fast.
‘We must bale out!’ cried Mohanlal. Below them lay the ruins ofPataliputra, seemingly
devoid of gawking tourists at this early hourof the morning. ‘Just my luck,’ thought
Gangasagar, ‘I'm going to diesurrounded by two-thousand-three-hundred-year-old
bones. Even ifthey discover my body later they'll think I'm just another relic of
anancient civilisation! Why did my greedy boss send me up in the airto fucking search
for iron ore that is hundreds of feet underground?
Instead of digging for iron ore they'll be digging for my body, entombed
in this rusting iron bird. Look, Agrawalji, here's the iron youwanted!’
Gangasagar felt dizzy as the plane shuddered and went into atailspin. ‘Jump! Now!’
shrieked Mohanlal as he ejected himself andpulled the ripcord of his parachute.
Gangasagar blindly followed. Hewas now beyond caring. He knew that he was about
to die and didn'tcare if the damn parachute opened or not. Considering the state of
Mohanlal's plane, it was very possible that there would be no parachute
in the backpack at all!
He was in heaven. He was quite certain that he had died and wasnow floating above
the clouds in Indra's heavenly abode. It was onlywhen he looked over and found
Mohanlal floating alongside him thathe realised that they couldn't possibly be in
heaven if Mohanlal wasaround. Both their parachutes had successfully deployed and
Gangasagar
felt the wind in his face as they gently floated towards mother

earth.
Thud! The impact was anything but gentle. Weren't parachutessupposed to soften the
impact? There was no time to ponder overthe harshness of their collision with the
ground. Less than a hundredyards away, the groaning mass of Mohanlal's Hawker
plunged,
shrieking a pierce, chilling scream, as it crashed into terra firmaand exploded into a
fireball. Both Mohanlal and Gangasagar bracedthemselves and hit the ground for
protection from the heat blast thatemanated from the wreck.
It was several minutes before either man raised his head. Their
faces were covered in black soot and their clothes torn. Gangasagar'shair was
standing straight up, almost as though an electric currenthad been passed through it.
Cuts and bruises covered his arms, legsand face. Despite his weakened condition he
had an overwhelmingurge to strangle Mohanlal and fervently prayed that he would
restrain
himself from attacking the pilot.
He looked around him. The ruins of Pataliputra were like a ghosttown at 5.30 in the
morning. It was almost as if on a given day,
Chandragupta's bustling empire had simply ground itself to a halt. Atthe centre of the
Kumhrar site stood eighty massive pillars, probablyonce part of Magadha's great
audience hall. Of course, there was noroof, no polished floor, no tapestry, no rich
furnishings, which wouldonce have embellished the court of the world's richest king.
Somedistance away stood the ruins of a Durakhi Devi temple, a Buddhist
monastery as well as an ayurvedic hospital. ‘This must have been onehell of a
kingdom,’ thought Gangasagar to himself, allowing his passion
for history to take over.
‘Hello? Which world are you in?’ asked Mad Mohanlal, waving ahand in front of
Gangasagar. ‘We need to get near the crash site andensure that there was no one in
the vicinity. There could be casualties,’
said Mohanlal as they started waking towards the fuel vapoursand flames.

The ground had caved in at the crash site. Black acrid smoke puffedfrom the infernal
machine, which had landed nose down. The ruins
of the great assembly hall of Pataliputra lay a hundred yards to thewest. ‘Shall we walk
towards Patna?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘No point making the effort. We're bang in the middle of the tourist
circuit. Sit here for an hour or two and we'll have all the buses
rolling in. We'll simply hitch a ride back into town,’ suggested Mohanlal.
They sat down away from the circle of wreckage and watched theflames die down.
Gangasagar dusted off the soot from his clothes,
spat in his hand and used the saliva to clean his eyes. Mohanlaloffered him a swig
from his hip flask. Gangasagar ignored the pilotand continued to poke a twig he had
found into the soil before him.
It was soft red alluvial soil—rich in iron ore. Agrawalji, look sir, I
found your fucking ferrous fields, thought Gangasagar.
The twig encountered an obstruction that prevented it from sinking
deeper into the soft soil. Curiosity piqued, Gangasagar stabbedat it unrelentingly.
Mohanlal drank some more in an effort to makeGangasagar bearable. Gangasagar got
down on his knees and starteddigging with the twig. He needed to know what was
obstructing it.
A few minutes of digging by Gangasagar and a few pegs of whiskydowned by
Mohanlal, and the source of the blockage was discovered.
It was a small squarish block of black granite. Although it had remained
buried in a few feet of soft soil for some time, it seemed polished and smooth. As
Gangasagar used his palms to clear the soil thatcovered the face of the slab, he felt

indentations along the smoothfascia—this was no ordinary rock formation, it was a
rock inscription!
‘Come on! Get up and help me!’ shouted Gangasagar at the pilot.
A visibly irritated Mohanlal got up, screwed back the cap on his hipflask and tucked it
away inside his baggy flying pants. ‘We need somemetallic pieces of the wreckage that
we can use as shovels,’ Gangasagar
told him. The intimidated pilot did not want to face the wrath ofElvis-sideburns. He
found a metallic shaft, probably one of the wingsupports, and touched it gingerly—it
wasn't flaming hot. He pickedit up and brought it over to Gangasagar who snatched it
and beganshovelling frantically.
‘What's the big deal?’ asked Mohanlal. ‘Why're we getting hornylooking at a block of
fucking granite? It doesn't even have tits!’
Gangasagar ignored him and kept digging. Within fifteen minuteshe had cleared away
most of the soil and exposed the face of a blockof stone, around the size of a
tombstone lying flat on its back. Itwas perfectly polished granite and bore inscriptions
in a script thatGangasagar could not understand. He knew that it was
probablyBrahmi—the calligraphy used in Mauryan times—but could not becertain.
‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Prithum

Bhagvati,
Namo
Namah;
Kundalini
Mata
Shakti;
Mata
Shakti,
NamoNamah,’ said the old teacher as he washed the stone with water and
a ghiya-tori,
a loofah. ‘It's an ancient Sanskrit mantra extolling thevirtues of feminine energy,’ said
Gangasagar's old headmaster.
Gangasagar and Mohanlal had taken the help of a couple of touristguides to pry the
block out of the ground, lift it into one of thebuses that seemed even more dangerous
than the aircraft that hadjust crashed, and take it into Patna city. From there
Gangasagar hadtaken the train—no more flying—back into Kanpur.
Agrawalji had been happy about his safe return but had been evenhappier about the
magnetometer readings that would allow him tobid with greater confidence for the
mining concessions. Gangasagar'smother had been hysterical with worry and fear.
She hugged andkissed him a hundred times, running her hands over his head
andface, wanting to reassure herself that her son was indeed alive. Hissisters had
cooked kheer to celebrate his safe return. Ganga's motherwas also celebrating the
engagements of her daughters, dowry having
been helpfully provided by Agrawalji.
Gangasagar, after a few days of rest, had taken the graniteblock—loaded on a bullock
cart—to his old schoolmaster, who was
the only person who would know how to interpret the rock inscription.
‘You know, Ganga, it was always assumed that all rock inscriptions

in Pataliputra were commissioned by Ashoka—the greatest ofthe Mauryan kings—the
grandson of Chandragupta Maurya. But thiscannot be an Ashoka inscription!’
exclaimed his old headmaster.
‘Why?’ asked Gangasagar, curious as usual.
‘Because the use of Sanskrit had almost entirely disappeared byAshoka's reign.
Ashoka became an avowed Buddhist after he massacred
one hundred thousand people in Magadha's war with Kalinga.
Buddhists shunned Sanskrit. They saw it as a language of the eliteBrahmins and
wanted their prayers to be understood by the commonman. Ashoka's inscriptions were
thus written in Prakrit, the languageof the masses, not Sanskrit. But this is Sanskrit!’
said the excited teacher.
‘I thought this was Brahmi?’ asked the confused Gangasagar.
‘Brahmi is the script, not the language. Irrespective of whether
you were writing Sanskrit or Prakrit, the script would have been thesame—Brahmi.’
‘So what does this chant mean?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Primal
shakti,
I
bow
to
thee;
all-encompassing
shakti,
I
bow
to
thee;
that

through
which
God
creates,
I
bow
to
thee;
creative
power
of
thekundalini;
mother
of
all,
to
thee
I
bow,’ he said smiling. ‘It's the ultimate
recognition of female power.’
‘But there seems to be an inscription on the other face of the blocktoo. Is it a repetition
of the same chant?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Ah! No, I took a look at it. It contains instructions on the manner
in which this mantra should be recited and its effects.
Gangasagar was wide-eyed in amazement. ‘Tell me what it says,’
he asked eagerly.
His old schoolmaster smiled. ‘I've done better than that. I've translated
and written down what it says on a sheet of paper for you.’

Four thousand days you shall pray
Four hundred chants every day.
Chanakya's power is yours to take
Chandragupta, to make or break.
If there's a lull, start once more.
King must be queen, to be sure.
Suvasini's curse shall forever halt
If you can cure Chanakya's fault.
CHAPTER THREE
About 2300 years ago
Takshila lay at the crossroads of two great trade routes, the royalUttarapatha highway
between Magadha and Gandhar, and the Indus
route between Kashmir and the fabled Silk Road. Takshila was
nestled in the valley kingdom of Gandhar—the Sanskrit word for fragrance.
Surrounded by hills, orchards and wild flowers, Gandhar was acornucopia of nature's
abundance.
Shivering from the biting winter winds blowing in from the Himalayas
and the Hindukush mountains and with nothing more thanhis worn-out robes for
protection, Chanakya found himself standingbefore the dwaar
pandit—the gate principal—of Takshila University.
Dawn had just about broken and the air was filled with the smells oftemple incense and
the sounds of morning recitations of the Vedas.
The well-planned streets were being swept and watered and thebreakfast taverns had
started preparing for their first customers.

‘Whom do you wish to meet, boy?’ asked the dwaar pandit. Chanakya
replied that he needed to meet Acharya Pundarikaksha, the deanof the university.
Following the gate principal's directions, Chanakyareached a small cottage surrounded
by fruit trees. The dean was inhis garden, sitting bare-chested in the biting cold for his
morning contemplation
and prayers. Chanakya knew better than to disturb himand simply sat down in a corner
of the nursery, trembling from thechill. A few moments later Pundarikaksha opened his
eyes to find arather dark, gangly-limbed, ugly and awkward-looking boy sitting inhis
garden, shaking in the cold.
‘Who are you, my son?’ he enquired. ‘Sir, my name is Chanakya.
I'm the son of Acharya Chanak of Magadha. I have here a letter for
you from Katyayanji, a minister in the Magadha cabinet. He said thathe knows you,’
explained Chanakya.
Katyayan's name brought an immediate beam to the dean's face.
It was quite obvious that the two had been childhood friends. Hetook off the shawl that
was casually thrown on his right shoulderand covered Chanakya with it. He put his arm
around the youth in acomforting gesture and took him inside where the warmth of the
kitchen
hearth was inviting. He quickly instructed his servant to get theboy a tumbler of hot
milk and some laddoos. Chanakya realised hewas ravenous and wolfed them down
between gulps of warm milk.
Pundarikaksha was busy reading the letter Katyayan had written.
It spoke of the fact that Chanakya was one of the brightest studentsof Magadha and
was the son of Acharya Chanak, the leading authority
in the field of political science and economics. ‘Katyayan wantsme to get you
admission in the university,’ said Pundarikaksha.
Doesn't

my
friend
know
that
princes
from
all
over
the
world
wait
for
yearsto
get
accepted
into
these
hallowed
portals?
wondered Pundarikaksha
as he continued reading the letter. His mind wandered to the dayswhen Katyayan and
he were students in Takshila. Pundarikaksha hadbeen a poor orphan and Katyayan's
father had financed his education.
The dean knew that his old friend Katyayan was calling in thefavour. Refusal of
admission for this boy was not an option.
‘You must be fatigued, Chanakya. You should rest. I shall ask mymanservant to
prepare a warm bed for you. I shall be meeting theadmissions director to discuss this
matter. I may send for you later incase he needs to test your knowledge,’ said the
perspicacious dean ashe rose to leave.

‘What is the purpose of good government, Chanakya?’ asked theadmissions director.
They were seated on the floor in his office, asparsely decorated room filled with musty
scrolls, parchments andmanuscripts. The room smelt of the eucalyptus oil lamps that
illuminated
the area in the evening.
The reply from Chanakya was prompt and confident. ‘In the happiness
of his subjects lies the king's happiness and in their welfare,
his own welfare,’ he replied emphatically.
‘Son, what are the duties of a king?’
‘A ruler's duties are three. Raksha—protecting the state from external
aggression; palana—maintenance of law and order within; and
finally, yogakshema—welfare of the people.’
‘O son of Chanak, what are the possible means by which a kingcan settle political
disputes?’
‘There are four possible methods, sir. Sama—gentle persuasion
and praise; daama—monetary incentives; danda—punishment or
war; and bheda—intelligence, propaganda and disinformation.’
‘What is the difference between a kingdom, a country, and itspeople?’
‘There cannot be a country without people, and there is no kingdom
without a country. It's the people who constitute a kingdom;
like a barren cow, a kingdom without people yields nothing.’

‘What constitutes a state, wise pupil?’
‘There are seven constituent elements, learned teacher. The king,
the council of ministers, the territory and populace, the fortifiedtowns, the treasury, the
armed forces and the allies.’
‘Why does a king need ministers at all?’
‘One wheel alone does not move a chariot. A king should appointwise men as
ministers and listen to their advice.’
‘What is the root of wealth?’
‘The root of wealth is economic activity, and lack of it brings material
distress. In the absence of fruitful economic activity, both current
prosperity and future growth are in danger of destruction. Inthe manner that elephants
are needed to catch elephants so does oneneed wealth to capture more wealth.’
‘What is an appropriate level of taxation on the people of a kingdom?’
‘As one plucks fruits from a garden as they ripen, so should a kinghave revenue
collected as it becomes due. Just as one does not collect
unripe fruits, he should avoid collecting revenue that is not duebecause that will make
the people angry and spoil the very sourcesof revenue.’
‘To what extent should a king trust his revenue officials?’

‘It is impossible to know when a fish swimming in water drinkssome of it. Thus it's quite
impossible to find out when governmentservants in charge of undertakings
misappropriate money.’
‘How important is punishment in the administration of a kingdom?’
‘It is the power of punishment alone, when exercised impartiallyin proportion to the
guilt, and irrespective of whether the personpunished is the crown prince or an enemy
slave, that protects thisworld and the next.’
‘How should a king decide which kings are his friends and whichare his enemies?’
‘A ruler with contiguous territory is a rival and the ruler next tothe adjoining is to be
deemed a friend. My enemy's enemy is myfriend.’
The admissions director looked at the boy in amazement. He thenturned to
Pundarikaksha and smiled. ‘I have no doubts regarding hisknowledge, analytical skills
and intelligence, but who will pay his tuition?’
he asked. The dean grinned sheepishly. ‘My childhood chumKatyayan has called in a
loan, my friend. I shall bear the cost personally,’
he revealed.
Chanakya prostrated himself before Pundarikaksha and requestedhim to accept the
ten gold panas that remained from the fifty thatKatyayan had provided for his trip.
‘Keep it, Chanakya. I will call inthe loan as and when I deem appropriate,’ declared
Pundarikaksha.
‘You shall unite the whole of Bharat; your brilliance shall be a flamethat attracts kings
like fireflies until they are humbled into submission;
arise, Chanakya, our motherland needs you,’ pronounced the

dean. The grateful lad touched Pundarikaksha's feet wordlessly andleft.
‘I wonder whether this one really needs a Takshila education,’
whispered the admissions director to the dean as Chanakya left.
Chanakya's awry front teeth, his gangly limbs, his blemished andcratered face, his
charcoal complexion and his patchy skin causedhim to stand out as the most illfavoured
of Takshila. Princes and
sons of nobility, most of whom placed a premium on being aristocratic
and handsome, filled the university. Chanakya's raw intellectand audacious opinion on
almost every subject did little to win himfriends.
One day, when he was walking from his dormitory to his classes,
he yelped in sudden pain as one of the blades of dry kush
grass growing
along the riverbank pierced his right foot. He mechanically lifted
up his foot and pulled out the thorny blade of grass that hadventured to challenge him.
Having pulled out the thorn and washedaway the blood in the river, Chanakya bent
down to examine the offending
turf. He began uprooting clumps of kush and hurling theminto the river.
‘Look at Chanakya, friends! He harangues us with accounts of howhe will destroy the
enemies of the country and look, he cannot evensuppress mere grass that attacks his
foot!’ shouted one of his classmates.
Chanakya remained absorbed in the problem before him andignored the jibes. He
continued to pull out the wounding blades oftough kush, oblivious to the laughter and
merriment around him.
Several minutes and handfuls later, though, he realised that he wasnot going to be
successful in eliminating the adversarial weeds using

as unrefined a method as this. He made a mental note of whatneeded to be done and
hurried to class. ‘Defeated already!’ crowedhis compatriots. ‘If that were real battle it
would have ended withoutbloodshed. Chanakya would simply have laid down his arms
before the enemy,’ suggested a young prince. Chanakya had nothing to contribute
by way of retort.
The next day, Chanakya's classmates were surprised to see himcarrying a pitcher
containing a clouded solution. While his compatriots
hurried along, Chanakya drizzled the whitish liquid over as widean area of the turf as
possible. Some more sarcastic remarks followed.
‘This is Chanakya's new battle strategy. If you can't defeatthe enemy, give him milk so
that he can become even stronger anddecimate you effortlessly,’ said one. Another
remarked caustically,
‘No, no. You don't understand… this is kush grass, revered by our Vedas.
Chanakya is making offerings to the grass so that he may pleasethe gods and they,
instead of him, may do the dirty work of annihilating
the adversary.’ As usual, Chanakya did not offer any explanations.
The next day, the boys were shocked to find that large patches ofthe grass had
disappeared. ‘Hey Chanakya! What was in that milkyou sprayed here yesterday?’
asked one of the boys, curiosity piqued.
‘The kush was too abundant and vast for me to destroy, so Ifigured—if my enemy's
enemy is my friend—what is this kush'sbiggest foe? The answer was fungus and ants,
both of which attackthe grass and feed on it. What I poured yesterday was not milk.
Itwas sweetened whey, my friends. The protein in the whey causedthe fungus to grow
and the sugar content attracted the ants,’ explained

the canny youth to his disconcerted companions who wereeven more surprised to note
that Chanakya had brought with him yetanother pitcher of whey and was repeating the
previous day's procedure.
‘You've already killed the grass, Chanakya. What's with the secondpitcher?’ enquired
one of the preceding day's mocking sons of nobility.
‘A debt should be paid off till the last pana, and an enemy destroyed
till the very last trace,’ reasoned the unrelenting Chanakya forthe benefit of his new
admirers.
‘It's unfortunate that the concept of Bharat—the common abode and
cultural heritage of us Indo-Aryans—has been subjugated by pettyrulers and
kingdoms. Our scriptures, traditions, culture, prayers, anddeities are common. Why is
it, then, that we refer to our homes asMagadha, Gandhar, Kashi, Kuru, Kosala,
Mallayrajya or Panchala?
Why don't we say that we're citizens of Bharat? It's this fundamental
divisiveness that will bring about our downfall in the future,’ debated
Chanakya while tilting his head so that he could partially alignhis face with that of his
host. He was in Sage Dandayan's hut on theoutskirts of Takshila. The sage was a yogi
and had been standing onhis head for the past few days, hence the valiant effort by
Chanakyato adjust his own visage with that of the upside-down yogi.
In the past six years, Chanakya had not only excelled at every subject
in his curriculum at Takshila but had also been on the meritlist each year. His stellar
academic performance had earned himthe position of upacharya—teaching
assistant—in his favourite subjects,
political science and economics. The meagre but adequate income
from the job had allowed him to repay the debt to his guru,

Pundarikaksha, in accordance with his sentiment that ‘a debt should
be paid off till the last pana’, although Pundarikaksha had joked thatthe interest was
still due and payable, not in cash, but through therealisation of a united homeland.
Pundarikaksha had introduced Chanakya to the insightful yogi,
and Chanakya enjoyed visiting him at his hermitage every once ina while. Dandayan
liked the bright young man who seemed to havean opinion on almost every major
issue. ‘Solitary candles remaincentred on their own flames until one applies heat to the
vessel thatholds them. In the face of a common enemy—heat—they coalesceinto a
single candle,’ revealed the inverted sadhu, his long grey locksand beard forming a
pool around his head on the floor.
The sacred ash-smeared yogi continued nonchalantly, ‘Unlike thesun which awakes in
the east and falls asleep in the west, the Hellenic
star has arisen in the west and is travelling eastwards. The fairskinned
god eradicates everyone and everything that confronts him.
Your real enemy is not Dhanananda, O learned offspring of Chanak,
but the Macedonian divinity whom they call Alexander the Great!’
‘What shall I do, guruji? My anger towards Dhanananda has notabated. How can I
disregard my objectives?’ asked a perturbedChanakya.
‘Chanakya. One does not need to pluck fruit from a tree that isabout to be chopped
down. The fruit will fall by themselves. Focuson the bigger purpose and the rest of your
manifesto will follow as amatter of course.’
Chanakya's fame and reputation as a teacher grew. Students viedwith one another to
be in his class. Every once in a while, Chanakyawould break away from learning-by-

ote and allow his students toask him rapidfire questions which he would answer in his
most wittyand penetrating manner with little regard for political rectitude.
‘Acharya, you're the most learned of teachers. Why shouldn't youbecome a king?’
‘Honestly speaking. I don't mind that I'm not king. I just have aproblem that someone
else is.’
‘Acharya, what is the reason for secrecy in government?’
‘If citizens don't know what you're doing, how on earth can theypossibly tell what you're
doing wrong? That's why secrecy is essential,
my boy.’
‘Acharya, why do people seem to get away with not respecting thelaw of the land?’
‘If we want people to have respect for the law, then we must firstmake the law
respectable, son.’
‘Acharya, isn't the king actually a servant of the people?’
‘Correction. In order to become master, a ruler must profess to be
a servant of the people.’
‘Acharya, how can the prime minister reduce the king's burden intimes of crisis or
panic?’
‘Why do that? Rulers must be allowed to panic. They need to bekept busy with lots of
crises. It's their measure of achievement!’
‘Acharya, is it the sacred duty of the king to always speak thetruth?’

‘Hah! The king doesn't need the truth. What he most needs issomething that he can
tell the people, dear lad. After all, a goodspeech is not one in which you can prove that
the king's telling thetruth, it's one where no one else can prove he's fibbing.’
‘Acharya, which are the freedoms that should be guaranteed to acitizen by the state?’
‘Hmm… let me see. It's well known that a hungry man is more interested
in four pieces of bread rather than four freedoms.’
‘Acharya, why should Brahmins like you be involved in politics?’
‘Politics is far too serious a matter to be left to politicians, son.’
‘Acharya, is war the only solution to political differences?’
‘Wise pupil, politics is war without bloodshed and war is simplypolitics with bloodshed.’
‘Acharya, don't citizens have the right to know how their tax revenues
are being used?’
‘Dear me. No, no, no. People don't want to know how tax revenuehas actually been
spent. Does any worshipper ever ask the templeBrahmin what happened to the ritual
offering made to the gods?’
‘Acharya, isn't good government about acting on principles?’
‘Absolutely. Government is about principles. And the principle is,
never act on principle.’

‘And are principles greater than money?’
‘Remember one central tenet, lad. When anybody says, “It isn't the
money, it's the principle”, they actually mean that it's the money.’
‘Acharya, what's the ideal amount of time that should be spent bythe king's council
debating an issue?’
‘Well, if you don't want the council to spend too long over
something, make it the last item on their agenda before refreshments.’
‘Acharya, should a king go to war to uphold law and justice?’
‘The king should always be on the side of law and justice, as longas he doesn't allow it
to come in the way of foreign policy.’
‘Acharya, what should the punishment be for a prime ministerwho keeps the king
ignorant of happenings in the kingdom?’
‘My son, kings are ignorant not because prime ministers do notgive them the right
answers but because they do not ask their primeministers the right questions. And
here endeth the lesson!’
The witty repartee and humour masked an inner melancholy andsense of desolation.
Chanakya had left his mother in Magadha on themere promise of Katyayan. Was she
in good health? Would she bemissing her son? How would she be coping with the loss
of both husband

and son? Over the years, he had tried to send several messagesto her through various
merchant caravans and wandering bards. Noreply had ever come back. It could mean
either that the messengershad been unable to locate her... or worse.
It had been over ten years since that dark amavasya night, underthe cover of which he
had abandoned Magadha. His mentor,
Pundarikaksha, had passed away the previous year. On his deathbed,
the compassionate dean had urged Chanakya to return to Magadhaand bring back his
mother to Takshila, so that she could be bettercared for. ‘Your mother as well as your
motherland need lookingafter, Chanakya, but one's mother comes before one's
motherland.’
Pundarikaksha had died leaving three possessions to his beloveddisciple—his house,
his manuscripts and his loyal manservant.
Chanakya quickly installed three of his favourite students, Sinharan,
Mehir and Sharangrao in the house to look after his affairs while hewas away.
Sinharan was the son of the governor of Mallayrajya, oneof the handfuls of republics in
the region. He had been cheated out of the throne by his uncle who had usurped the
throne of Mallayrajyafrom Sinharan's father. Mehir was a Persian student who had fled
his
homeland owing to the Macedonian invasion. Sharangrao was thebrightest Brahmin
boy in the university. All three were his endeareddisciples, although they remained
consistently at odds with Ambhi,
the crown prince of Gandhar—an arrogant and brash freshman inthe university. ‘Keep
him in check, Sinharan,’ advised Chanakya, andthen having taken permission for a
sabbatical from the universitychancellor, started preparations for the long march to the
city of hisbirth.
The arduous journey to Magadha brought flashbacks not only ofhis parents but also of
dear Suvasini. She was the daughter of the imprisoned

prime minister Shaktar and had been his childhood friend.
As a little girl, she had been delicately built, like an exquisitelycarved statue. Her rosy
cheeks and piercing brown eyes had drivenChanakya quite mad. He had always
remained in love with her buthad never plucked up the courage to tell her. He knew
that she knew,
but she had derived mischievous fun from pretending she didn't. Ashe inched his way
towards Magadha, he found himself reminiscingmore frequently about his adolescent
infatuation.
Pataliputra had not only grown in size but also in indulgence, licentiousness,
corruption and debauchery. Betting and gambling hallswere on every street corner and
it was not uncommon to observedisputes breaking out over claims of loaded dice,
sleight of hand ordoctored animal fights. Alcohol was consumed to excess and it was
afamiliar sight to see wine-soaked men staggering out of madiralays,
having overindulged in kinva,
asava,
maireya,
medaka,
madhu
or
prasanna—the wide assortment of cocktails that Magadha pubs hadon offer. The other
wide assortment consisted of ganikas,
rupajivas
and pumsachalis—prostitutes, independent escorts and concubines.
Magadha's courtesans offered the finest talent—singing, playing musical
instruments, conversing, dancing, performing massages, preparing
perfumes, stringing garlands, shampooing, bathing and, of

course most importantly, the art of lovemaking. A celebrated guru ofMagadha,
Vatsyayana, had just published a bestselling treatise, theKama
Sutra, with over twelve hundred verses detailing seventy-sevendifferent positions for
making love.
When Chanakya arrived at the gates of the capital, Pataliputra,
the inebriated immigration officer at the city gates could barelybring himself to cursorily
examine his travel documents, leave aloneask him any relevant questions, even
though it was only noon. Theguards at the city gates seemed dishevelled and red-eyed
after heavydrinking the previous night. Magadha was a kingdom in denial—itseemed to
be refusing to acknowledge the threat of a Macedonian invasion
that loomed large for the bordering kingdoms of Bharat. Boththe king and his people
simply did not want the party to end eventhough the night was over.
Most of the city seemed to be unchanged, though, and it was nottoo difficult for
Chanakya to navigate his way to Katyayan's house.
The streets, the houses and even the street corner oil-fired lampslooked unchanged.
What had changed was the appearance of Katyayan.
Ten years had aged him by twenty-five. He instantly recognisedChanakya approaching
the house and rushed outside to meet himeven though he had last seen him as a mere
runt. Tears welled up inhis eyes as he hugged Chanakya and refused to let go. As they
wentinside, he instructed his manservant to wash Chanakya's hands andfeet and to
have the cook organise the noon meal.
The two men sat down on the floor of the kitchen as the servant
placed banana leaves and earthen tumblers of water before them.
In Brahmin tradition, they each sprinkled a little water around theirleaves, a ritual
purification of the earth. Next, the servant broughtrice, lentils and vegetables, which he
proceeded to place on theirbanana leaves. As was the custom, both men—before
commencingto eat with their hands—removed small morsels of their food from

the leaves and left them as symbolic charitable offerings for animals—
cows, dogs, crows and ants—to please the gods. Even thoughthey had not seen each
other for over a decade, the meal was consumed
in silence following Vedic custom.
It was only after they had risen and retired to the courtyard thatChanakya spoke. ‘I
have come to Pataliputra to take back my mother,
Katyayanji. How is she?’ he enquired. The silence that followed wasprotracted and
deafening. Finally, Katyayan spoke. ‘Vishnu… Chanakya…
how do I tell you this? After your father's brutal execution andyour departure for
Takshila, I did everything to keep her in goodstead. At my insistence, she was sent to
Kusumpur, your family's ancestral
home near Pataliputra. I reasoned that she would be better offaway from Pataliputra—
a place that she associated with the murderof her husband and the disappearance of
her son. I would send hermoney and provisions regularly and would visit her whenever
possible
but, my dear Chanakya, she was pining for you and mourningthe death of her beloved
husband. She stopped eating, and witheredaway. She passed away around six or
seven years ago. Forgive me,
Chanakya. I have now been the bearer of bad news twice in yourlife.’
The blank and distant look that Katyayan had witnessed in Chanakya's
eyes when he was told about the slaying of his father seemed tohave returned. The old
man held Chanakya's hand and tried his bestto coax a reaction but failed. The armour
of dispassionate determination
had once again enveloped Chanakya and he quickly changed thesubject, almost as
though the demise of a parent was just one amongseveral equally relevant topics for
discussion.
‘Is prime minister Shaktar alive? How is he?’ he asked.

‘He's still in prison. Dhanananda destroyed his family. Rakshasand I regularly bribe
Girika to keep him alive. You know that it's impossible
to leave Nanda's Hell—the prison complex and torture dungeons
managed by that monster Girika—alive and well. I'm told bymy informants that
Shaktarji's life is a living hell and that he dies athousand deaths each day!’
‘So Shaktarji's daughter—Suvasini—is also dead?’ asked Chanakya,
hesitatingly.
‘I know that you always had a soft corner for her, Chanakya. Butwhat can I say? Her
life is worse than death. She survived due to thebenefaction of that adulterer Rakshas,
but ended up his mistress.’
‘My dear beloved Suvasini, a harlot? My mother dead! The primeminister in a hellish
dungeon! Where is justice in Magadha?’
‘The only recompense is that the persecution of Brahmins hasceased. Ever since
Rakshas took over as prime minister, he has succeeded
in keeping Dhanananda immersed in wine and women. Theresult has been royal
lethargy in the anti-Brahmin policy. Rakshas,
being a Brahmin himself, has even convinced Dhanananda to establish
an endowment that provides grants to learned Brahmins. Whocould have thought that
a Shudra
would ever do anything to even remotely
favour Brahmins?’
‘So Dhanananda and Rakshas have succeeded in buying the silentacquiescence of
the Brahmins through endowments, have they?
Mother earth is weeping at the betrayal right now—Brahmins weresupposed to be her
guardians, the protectors of righteousness, devoutness,
godliness, honesty, fairness, truth, virtue, dignity and integrity.

Instead we have become common whores, available to thehighest bidder for the night!’
‘Sshh… Chanakya… not so loud, my son… even walls have ears.
Yes, you're right, we're no better than concubines. I also stand guiltybefore you. It's
just that I saw what happened to your father—the illustrious
Chanak—when he tried to speak up for what was right. I'mstill witnessing the horrors
that our erstwhile prime minister Shaktarhas to endure for having sought to put the
monarch on an appropriate
course. There's no point brandishing a bow if your quiver holdsno arrows, Chanakya.
That's harsh reality for you.’
‘I don't blame you, Katyayanji. If it weren't for you, I would neverhave survived. I shall
remain indebted to you for the rest of my life.
My anger is due to the hopeless situation. It isn't directed at you.’
‘I understand, Chanakya. Let's try to direct this rage to some productive
use. If you want Dhanananda ejected from his throne, youneed men, materials, allies,
and planning… and as you're well aware,
at the root of all these is wealth. You need money if you hope toachieve the purge of
Magadha.’
The Feast of Wisdom was the annual banquet hosted by the king forlearned Brahmin
gurus from all over his kingdom. Their feet wouldbe washed, they would be fed,
provided with gifts of gold and, inturn, they would bless the king and his kingdom.
Pataliputra Palacewas festooned with marigolds and banana leaves for the grand
event.
Hundreds of cooks slaved within the royal kitchens to prepare choicedishes as
offerings to the Brahmins. Outside the palace gates, drummers

eat their skins in a frenzied rhythm to announce that the feastof wisdom had begun.
Before the feast commenced, however, the listof winners who would be fed by the king
and honoured with endowments
had to be decided. This was done through a series of opendebates in court, with the
sovereign in attendance. Those who performed
well in these open debates would earn distinction throughroyal recognition and
favours.
Dhanananda was in court, but reluctantly. He was in a foul mood.
The fat oaf, the rajpurohit—the court astrologer—had been looking atthe king's
horoscope, and had found his second star, Venus, conjunctwith deceptive Ketu
in the sixth house, to be in close proximity toSaturn. He had warned Dhanananda that
the day was not an auspicious
one for him and that he should expect trouble. ‘You've been in
your Rahu
Mahadasha
for the past year, my lord. Mars is the eighthplanet, representing death, transformation,
and change, from the ascendant,
Moon, and Sun. Saturn, the sixth governor of court battles,
has also been trailing your Sun and Moon's tenth aspect, and ascendant's
third aspect by transit. Be careful of what you say and do today,
O King!’ exclaimed the astrologer.
‘Be careful of what you say and do today, Chanakya,’ advised Katyayan,
although Chanakya had no intention of participating in any competition.
He was far too distinguished a scholar for any such event.
He simply wished to observe the proceedings of Dhanananda's courtand better
understand the equation between the king and his newprime minister, Rakshas. He
ensured that he remained suitably hidden

within the throng of the palace guests and out of the direct line
of sight of Dhanananda. His error, however, was to stand alongsideKatyayan and to
remain within the sight of Rakshas. Rakshas recognised
the ugly Chanakya instantly. Seeing an opportunity to letsome sparks fly, he sombrely
announced, ‘Magadha is honoured tohave present here among us today, her illustrious
son, Chanakya,
who is a revered professor at the renowned Takshila University. Thecourt shall be
delighted to kick off today's competitions with a discussion
by the acharya.’ Polite applause followed and Chanakya reluctantly
took centre stage. ‘Measure your words and hold your temper,’
Katyayan whispered urgently as Chanakya walked away fromhim.
‘Om! Salutations to Brihaspati and Sukra, the gurus of the godsand antigods, and the
originators of the science of politics,’ startedChanakya as an opening invocation, facing
Dhanananda seated onhis royal throne with Rakshas standing at his right hand. ‘Om!’
chanted the assembly in chorus.
‘O enlightened teacher, how can society work in harmony towardsthe progress of the
kingdom?’ asked Rakshas.
‘By performing one's duty. The duties of a Brahmin
are studying,
teaching and interceding on man's behalf with the gods. The dutiesof a Kshatriya
are bearing arms and protecting all life. The duties of a
Vaishya
are trading, manufacturing and producing wealth. The duties
of a Shudra
are to serve the three higher varnas,’ declared Chanakya,
knowing fully well that the king seated at the throne was a Shudra.

Rakshas was malevolently pleased. He had already lit the spark.
It would not be too long before an explosion occurred. Surprisingly,
Dhanananda maintained his composure and allowed the remark toslip.
‘Acharya, what should be the qualities of a king?’
‘An ideal king should be eloquent, bold, endowed with sharp intellect,
strong memory and keen mind. He should be amenable toguidance. He should be
strong and capable of leading the army. Heshould be just in rewarding and punishing.
He should have foresightand avail himself of opportunities. He should be capable of
governing in times of peace and times of war. He should know when to fightand when
to make peace, when to lie in wait and when to strike. Heshould preserve his dignity at
all times, be sweet in speech, straightforward
and amiable. He should eschew passion, anger, greed, obstinacy,
fickleness, and backbiting. He should conduct himself in accordance
with the advice of elders—’
‘Oh shut up! I do not need this sermon!’ interrupted Dhananandain a fit of rage. The
court was stunned into a silence one could touch.
Rakshas was at a loss for words. He had not expected such an instantresult.
‘I agree with you, O King. You do not need my advice. My adviceis meant for those
who have the intrinsic capacity to absorb andimplement my advice. You, unfortunately,
have neither!’ thunderedChanakya. Katyayan cringed inwardly. Why had he brought
Chanakya
here? He had unwittingly placed his own hand within the lion'sjaws.
‘Rakshas! Who is this ugly oaf that you deem a revered teacher?
He's not fit to be amongst us, leave alone lecture us!’ demandedDhanananda.

‘O noble King. He is Chanakya, the son of the dear departedChanak,’ explained
Rakshas slyly.
‘Ah! I now understand. When I ordered for that impudent dimwit'shead to be cut off, I
should also have done the same for his son. Rats
have a nasty habit of multiplying,’ observed Dhanananda.
‘Once again, I must agree with you, O King,’ said Chanakya, ‘youwere unwise to leave
me alive. An enemy should always be destroyed
to the very final trace—just as I shall destroy you and yourperverted dynasty one day,’
predicted Chanakya calmly.
‘Have this wretch arrested and sent to Nanda's Hell. He can think
up ways for my downfall under the tongs and probes of the talentedGirika! Catch him
by his puny pigtail as one catches a rat by its tail!’
shrieked Dhanananda as his royal guards moved towards Chanakya.
Chanakya's hands went to his shikha and untied the knot thatheld the individual
strands of hair together. In spite of his fury,
Dhanananda's curiosity was piqued and he remarked, ‘Untying yourtail isn't going to
help you! A monkey shall always remain a monkey!’
‘O stupid and ignorant King, I have made it my sacred duty tounite the whole of Bharat
so that it may stand up to the might of theforeign invaders at our doorstep. My first step
shall be to expungeyou from history. Today I take a sacred oath! I swear upon the
ashesof my wise father and loving mother that I shall not re-tie my shikhauntil I have
expelled you as well as the Macedonian invaders frommy country and united it under
an able and benevolent ruler!’ sworeChanakya as the guards caught hold of him by his
now untied hairand dragged him towards Nanda's Hell.

CHAPTER FOUR
Present Day
Agrawalji, I would like, with your blessings, to relinquish my service
in your employment,’ said Gangasagar. Over the years hehad learned everything that
Agrawalji possessed in his bag of tricks.
He was grateful but wanted to move on.
‘Why, Ganga? You've learned so much under my tutelage. Whythrow it all away?’
‘Sir, I think that I can help you better from outside than from within.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In India's untidy democracy, politics and business shall alwaysneed each other. The
former is about power but needs money to realise
it; the latter is about wealth but needs power to create and sustainit. Let me become
your political strength.’
‘And what would you want from me?’
‘Economic support. I shall repay it with political support when youneed it.’
‘My blessings are with you, Gangasagar.’

Gupta, the paan vendor, was blissfully smoking his cheroot as he lovingly
layered lime, cardamom, areca nuts, and rose-petal paste ontoa bright green betel leaf
for Gangasagar. The filth surrounding hisstall was unbearable, a thick stench of
sewage making it impossible tobreathe. ‘That's why I smoke these cheroots,’ said
Gupta, ‘they makeit easier to breath in this foul air. I don't mind the carcinogens!’
Kanpur was home to some of India's biggest tanneries, and thearea housed one of
them. Hides came to the tannery with animalflesh and hair still hanging on them and
the tannery used urine andlimestone sludge to remove the residue. The workers then
treated thehides with pigeon droppings. A permanent and disgusting smell ofrotting
flesh, stale urine and pigeon shit hung over the entire area.
The poorest of the poor worked in tanneries like this one and theyhad no alternative
but to live in shanties around the area. The result
was a burgeoning slum.
For the wealthy of Kanpur, slums like this one were embarrassingboils that needed to
be lanced; for those who lived in them, the
slum was their only source of sustenance—no matter how wretched.
With just one lavatory for every fifteen hundred dwellers, most residents
were left with little alternative but to defaecate out in the opendrains. Stinking
slaughterhouses that supplied the hides to the tanneries
discharged bloody remains into the very same open sewerschoked with untreated
human and industrial waste. Typhoid, cholera
and malaria were common conditions in this hellhole.
Along its perimeter were little shops like those of Gupta. The slumwas a self-sufficient
little community and paan and cigarette stalls,
tea shops, grocery stores, and chemists did roaring business becausethey had captive
consumers who lived right there. ‘Are there anyschools here?’ asked Gangasagar,
masticating his paan.

‘There used to be a municipal school but the teachers ran away.
The local mafia thugs wanted the space to set up their bootleggingoperation,’ said
Gupta, blowing a puff of acrid smoke. ‘The localpoliticos are quite happy to wax
eloquent about the need for schoolsto educate our young, but the reality is that they
wish to keep us illiterate
and uneducated. It's the perfect way to maintain a vote bank,’
said Gupta conspiratorially.
‘If I open a school here, will parents send their children?’ askedGangasagar.
‘I don't know about the others, but I'll send my daughter happily,’
said Gupta.
‘What's her name?’
‘Chandini. She's just ten.’
He was a rough and uncouth character but his clothes were immaculate.
His paan-stained teeth matched the colour of his eyes, bloodred.
Not that Ikrambhai ever drank. It was against his religion. Heran extremely
profitable ventures in land-grabbing, illegal betting,
extortion, and bootlegging. But he refused to drink. His eyes werered because he
rarely slept. Hard work was essential, even if youwere a slumlord. His swarthy skin
boldly contrasted with the purewhite
embroidered kurta that he wore. The buttons were sparklingdiamonds and on his
fingers he wore several rings, each set with adifferent stone.
He wore a ruby to give him good health and longevity, althoughhis own longevity often
meant the reduced lifeexpectancy of others.
He wore a cat's-eye to bestow him with patience, and he often remained

exceedingly patient while his thugs beat up a poor suckerwho refused to fall in line.
That's why he also wore a white pearl, tokeep him cool and calm. The yellow sapphire
was for increasing hiswealth, which seemed to multiply quite miraculously, and the
diamond
was to keep him sexually potent, not that he needed any aidin the virility department.
The green emerald was to enable him tocommunicate better and the coral was to
protect him from the evileye—of which there were many, given his profession.
‘Why aren't you wearing a blue sapphire?’ asked Gangasagar as helooked at all the
various stones that embellished Ikrambhai's fingers.
‘Why? What will that do for me?’
‘It will give you power and influence—real power and influence.’
‘Bah! I already have that. No one in this slum dare do anythingwithout my say-so,’ he
said with pride, his eyes boring into Gangasagar.
‘But what about the rest of the world? Your universe is this tannery
and the slum. There's so much good that someone with yourabilities could do for the
entire city—even the state perhaps.’
‘You mean setting up gambling dens and bootlegging warehousesacross the city?’
asked Ikrambhai earnestly.
‘There's not much difference between running an empire such asyours and running a
city administration. I often feel that take-no-shitguys like you would run the city better.
That's why I'm here to suggest
that you enter politics. I shall be your guru!’

Agrawalji had happily advanced the sum needed to finance theschool. It wasn't a very
large sum though—just enough for lights,
fans, a blackboard, basic furniture, a lick of paint and lots of books.
Ikrambhai inaugurated it. Gangasagar knew that he needed the support
of Ikrambhai.
‘Why are you giving him any credit?’ asked Agrawalji. ‘You're doing
all the hard work—including teaching the children history—andI'm coughing up the
cash.’
‘You can do much more with a kind word and a gun than a kindword alone,’ answered
Gangasagar. ‘Allowing him to take some ofthe credit for the school has ensured that
we're not bothered by hisgoons. Do you know he's threatened all the parents that he'll
thrashthem if they don't send their kids to the school?’ laughed Gangasagar.
‘And what's the catch behind this benevolent attitude of
Ikrambhai?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘He wants to fight the next municipal elections. He wants financialand intellectual
support,’ explained Gangasagar.
‘So you've promised him my money?’ asked Agrawalji dryly.
‘And my brains,’ countered Gangasagar, ‘only if he fights on anABNS ticket, though.’
‘What political party is that? I've never heard of it.’
‘It doesn't exist as yet. It will by the next municipal elections,
though.’

‘Should you be handing out tickets of your new outfit to mafiadons, Ganga?’
‘The best person to advise one on how to protect a bank is a thief.
This one's going to help me build and protect my vote bank.’
‘How?’
‘I'm a Brahmin. I can do the job of pulling in highcaste Hinduvotes but the lower castes
and the Muslims view me suspiciously.
Ikrambhai will help take care of the Muslim votes.’
‘Won't associating with him spoil your reputation, Ganga?’
‘Character is what you are. Reputation is what people think youare. As long as he
doesn't change my character, I'll be fine.’
‘I hope that you know what you're doing. You're making a pactwith the devil.’
‘God will forgive me. That's his job after all!’ said Gangasagar,
winking at Agrawalji.
The Kanpur Municipality had come into existence during the BritishRaj, but was
converted into a corporation—the Kanpur
Nagar
Mahapalika—
some years after Independence, with a mayor who was elected
every five years. The election was an indirect one in which over ahundred municipal
coroporators who were elected from the variousgeographical wards in the city would

choose the mayor. Ikrambhaiwas contesting only one out of the hundred seats in the
municipalcouncil but Gangasagar had also convinced many others to contestthe
elections on the ABNS platform. He had confidently pronouncedthat he would make
Ikram the mayor.
‘The council is hopelessly split along caste and religious lines.
Twenty-five per cent of the members are Brahmins, another quarterare the
intermediate castes such as the Yadavs, one-fourth are Dalits
and the remaining fourth are Muslims,’ explained Gangasagar.
‘You have no chance,’ said Agrawalji helplessly.
But this was politics, not economics. The master of this game wasGangasagar, not
Agrawalji.
‘Not true. All I need to do is take away five per cent from each ofthe four blocs. By
doing that, I'll have twenty per cent of the total.
The fifth bloc.’
‘But you'll still be twenty per cent, equal to each of the four otherblocs,’ argued
Agrawalji, not realising that this particular game ofchess had already been analysed
several moves into its conclusion.
‘The other four blocs hate each other. Whoever wants power willhave no alternative
but to ally themselves with us—the only caste-
and religion-neutral outfit,’ said Gangasagar triumphantly.
‘But they'd only support you if you agreed that their candidate became
mayor. How can you expect to make Ikram mayor?’

‘The mayor is elected through the system of a single transferablevote. The game
theory involved here is different to an ordinary vote,’
explained Gangasagar. ‘The early bird gets the worm but it's thesecond mouse that
gets the cheese! I don't need Ikrambhai to be the
favourite—merely the second favourite.’
‘How will that help him?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘All corporators are required to rank—in order of preferen
ce—their choice of all five candidates when they submit their ballot.’
‘So?’
‘For all the five political blocs, including our own, the first choicewill be a candidate
from within.’
‘Yes. But that merely puts Ikram on equal footing with the otherfour candidates.’
‘Ah, but each corporator must not only indicate his first choicefrom the five candidates
but also indicate his second, third, fourth
and fifth preference,’ explained Gangasagar. ‘Given the intensehatred between the
other four parties, they would refuse to endorseeach other's candidates as second
choice. I simply need to tell themto make Ikram their second choice.’
‘How exactly does this process work?’ enquired Agrawalji.
‘In round one the votes for the first choice candidates are counted.

Obviously all five, including Ikram, will be equal. Given the lack of aclear winner, the
second-choice votes will be tallied and added to the
count of each candidate. At this stage, Ikram becomes the strongest.
The second mouse shall bring home the cheese!’
‘I just hope that your mouse doesn't turn out to be a cat, Ganga,’
said Agrawalji.
‘Can any of you tell me what the core philosophy of MahatmaGandhi was?’
‘Ahimsa,’ came the answer from the back. It was a frail and petitethirteen-year-old girl.
Her face was rounded and her dark black hairwas oiled and pulled back in a plait tied
with a red ribbon. Littletendrils that had escaped the torturous ministrations of oiling
andbeing pulled tightly back, hung over her forehead. She wore a dullgrey skirt and an
insipid blue top—the usual dreary uniform of slumschools. Her complexion, however,
was unusually fair for such a setting,
and her little white teeth, pink lips and sparkling emeraldgreeneyes gave her an
expression of innocence coupled with intelligence.
She fiddled nervously with her pencil as Gangasagar looked at her.
‘Very good, Chandini. Can you tell me what that means?’
‘Ahimsa means non-violence.’
‘Does that mean refusing to fight?’
‘No. Ahimsa is not cowardice. It takes a very brave man to faceblows head-on.’
‘So it's about getting your way without coming to blows for it?’

‘Yes. But you need to have the moral authority to make people understand
what you want to achieve. Gandhiji's moral authority wasvery great.’
‘And can you tell me what gave him that moral authority?’
‘The personal example that he set for others?’ asked Gupta'sdaughter hesitantly.
‘Yes. We Indians continue to adore renunciation. It's a tradition
that has come down to us from the ancient yogis. Gandhiji was amodern yogi, in that
sense.’
‘Because he lived in poverty?’ she asked, her emeraldgreen eyeswidening.
‘Yes, but his poverty was a symbol. A symbol that gave him thepolitical authority to
carry people with him.’
‘And it saved the country lots of money?’
‘Hah! Sarojini Naidu—our first governor here in Uttar
Pradesh—summed it up beautifully when she said that it cost the Indian
nation a great deal of money to keep the Mahatma in poverty!’
‘Then why did he do it?’
‘That's the power of renunciation for you, my dear!’
‘Like the way that you renounced becoming mayor so that UncleIkram could?’
‘Yes,’ chuckled Gangasagar, ‘something like that.’

‘We need to clean up this city, Ikram.’
‘You mean “clean up” as in “make a killing”, right Gangasagarji?’
‘No.’
‘You don't mean clean up as in sweeping the streets and clearing
the garbage, do you?’
‘Yes, I do. The city's filthy.’
‘Taking control of the municipal corporation is all about makingmoney, not about
actually cleaning up.’
‘I'd be a fool if I said that corruption isn't a way of life. We're goingto need money to
strengthen the ABNS, but let's also do some goodalong the way.’
‘Why? Who's ever done any good in local government?’
‘We shouldn't do it because we're do-gooders. We should do it because
we want to win the next elections without assistance from other
political parties.’
‘If we make enough money in this term, we won't need another
term in the corporation. We'll be rich.’
‘Who's talking about the corporation?’

‘Huh?’
‘My dear Ikram. Real power lies at state level, not in local government.
That's where we're all going to be five years from now—theUttar Pradesh state
government.’
‘Gangasagarji. The garbage collectors have gone on strike. They saythat the new
discipline imposed on them has resulted in longerhours—they want more pay and
perks.’
‘They're already overpaid, Ikram. The corporation can't afford anymore hikes.’
‘So what do you want me to do? The municipal commissionerphones me every ten
minutes for a negotiated settlement.’
‘Negotiation must always be done from a position of strength, notweakness. If
essential services are disrupted, they'll have the upperhand.’
‘What's your advice?’
‘Garbage collection mustn't get disrupted. They'll then be forcedto negotiate from a
position of weakness.’
‘So you want me—the mayor—to go around the city collectinggarbage?’
‘No. But you have hundreds of ragpickers in your slum. Offer thema small daily
allowance to do the job. They'll not only do the job butalso recycle the waste. It's an
economy-friendly and ecology-friendlysolution.’

‘The garbage collectors will be enraged.’
‘Better they than us. Negotiate once they fall in line.’
‘The municipal hospitals are in shambles, Gangasagarji.’
‘Let's improve and upgrade them, Ikram.’
‘We don't have the budget. We're in deficit.’
‘Then let's rename the hospitals instead.’
How will renaming anything improve it?’
‘Simple. Who are the businessmen in this city who are being pro
secuted for tax fraud?’
‘There are several. Why?’
‘Tell them that their family name will be associated with
something charitable. Ask them for a substantial donation to upgradethe facilities and
we'll willingly rename the damned hospitals! Theyget the label of being benefactors
and we get the money to upgradethe facilities.’
‘What if they don't agree?’
‘Tell them that their tax cases will be pursued with double thevigour.’
‘Gangasagarji, the roads have developed potholes once again.’
‘Ikram, why don't we impose penalties on the construction firmsthat executed the job?’
‘They say that the materials used were as per municipal specifications.
It isn't their fault that the specifications were substandard.’
‘Fine. Announce that we're about to undertake massive road-building
projects over the next year. Make a press statement.’
‘But we're not.’
‘Ah. But they don't know that. Your potholes will get filled for freeby the firms that want
future business from us.’
Revenue collections are down this year, Gangasagarji.’
‘What are our sources of revenue, Ikram?’
‘Property tax, licence fees and rent on municipal lands.’
‘Increasing property tax or licence fees is not a viable option. It
discourages economic activity, and eventually lowers tax revenues.

Increase the rent on municipal lands.’
‘But we can't increase municipal rents—even though they arelower than market
rates—because of locked-in tenancies.’
‘Terminate the tenancies.’
‘The tenants will go to court.’
‘Let them. Each tenant will need a battery of lawyers whereas asingle government
attorney will represent the municipal corporation.
Our legal costs will be negligible in comparison to theirs.’
‘But matters will remain tied up in litigation for years. We'll eventually
lose. We're on extremely shaky legal ground.’
‘Fine. Threaten to sell the tenanted land as-is-where-is.’
‘No one will buy tenanted properties.’
‘My dear Ikram, if I recall correctly, you were a slumlord beforeyou were elevated to the
exalted position of mayor, am I correct?’
‘By your blessings and guidance, sir,’ said Ikram glibly.
‘So, ask yourself this. If the buyer happens to be an underworlddon, will the tenants be
comfortable with the thought of having adon as landlord?’
‘Obviously not. Mafia lords will use every dirty trick in—and outside—
the book to vacate the land. Tenants would be terrorised.’
‘So tell the tenants that they have two options. Either negotiatewith us for an increased
rent or negotiate with a don for decreasedlife-expectancy. I'm sure they'll mostly opt for
the former.’
‘I've signed the contract for the sewage disposal system, Gangasagarji.’
‘Did you keep five per cent for the party, Ikram?’
‘Yes. As you instructed.’
‘But did you also make sure that the city saves twenty per cent?’
‘Yes. The bidding process ensured that.’
‘Good. I know that our party coffers need strengthening before thestate assembly
elections but I refuse to do it without saving moneyfor the citizens too. There have

een too many evil officers inside themunicipal corporation who have lined their own
pockets without doing
anything for ordinary citizens.’
‘Alas, money is the root of evil.’
‘Yes. And sometimes a man needs roots.’
‘Let's cut bureaucracy to the best of our ability, commissioner,’ suggested
Gangasagar. He was seated in the mayor's plush office meeting
with the newlyappointed municipal commissioner. The commissioner
knew that the real political power was Gangasagar. The mayorwas the television set
but Gangasagar was the remote control unit.
To please Gangasagar he asked his deputies to draw up guidelineson how they could
reduce red tape. It was a lengthy document written
in government legalese. It was returned by Gangasagar to thecommissioner the next
day with a short note attached on top. Itsimply said:
Gayatri Mantra: 14 wordsPythagorean Theorem: 24 words
Archimedes’ Principle: 67 wordsThe Ten Commandments: 179 words
Jawaharlal Nehru's inaugural speech: 1,094 wordsYour recommendations to reduce
red tape:
22,913 words
Ikram, Gangasagar and Agrawalji were in their underwear, sittingcrosslegged on the
private Agrawal riverbank along the Ganges. Behind

each of the men stood a maalishwallah. They were all reekingof mustard oil, the
preferred lubricant used by Kanpur masseurs.
They had drenched the scalps of the three men with warm oil andwere vigorously
rubbing their customers’ heads. Agrawalji was baldbut that didn't seem to prevent his
maalishwallah from polishinghis crown enthusiastically. Intermittently, the masseurs
would strayfrom their primary targets—their heads—and manipulate, squeezeand
stroke their patrons’ necks, shoulders, arms, and backs. It was anorgy of grease and
grunts.
Agrawalji asked, ‘Ganga, do you think we're strong enough tofight the next state
assembly elections?’
‘The moot point is not whether we are strong enough but whetherwe can make the
opposition weak enough,’ replied Gangasagar, blissfully
aware of the masseur inserting his fingers into his ears and giving
his eardrums the Indian version of vibration therapy.
‘Knowing how you work, I'd say that you already have a plan,’
said Agrawalji, stretching out his arms so that the masseur couldgive his palms a
deep-tissue rub using his thumbs in a circular motion—
excellent for blood circulation.
‘I'm told that our honourable chief minister has a few not-so-honourable
vices,’ said Gangasagar shiftily.
‘What are they?’ asked Ikram.
‘The more appropriate question is who are they,’ replied Gangasagar.

‘Fine. Who are they?’
‘Shall I recite the ladies’ names alphabetically?’ joked Gangasagar.
‘Anyway, how does this help us?’ asked Agrawalji. ‘Our chief minister
has a good track record of governance. With him at the helm, itwill be difficult to
dislodge the current administration. With him outof the way, though, things would be
different.’
‘The problem with men who are extremely zealous at work is thatthey tend to be
equally enthusiastic about other pursuits,’ suggestedGangasagar.
‘With elections around the corner, he will be cautious. He will not
be easy to trip up,’ said Ikram.
‘Quite often, the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it,’
said Gangasagar quietly.
Gulbadan's kotha
near Akbari Darwaza in Lucknow was quietly famous.
It was one of the very few courtesans’ residences that had remained
frozen in time. The wealthy madam who owned the kotha
wore cashmere wool and brocade shawls, smoked from crystalhookahs, drank from
jade goblets, walked in bejewelled slippers,
spat into silver spittoons and slept on pure silk bedspreads. She sleptwith only one
man, though.
She was extremely choosy. It wasn't about the money—she hadenough of it. It was
about power. The only thing that could turn herinto a wet and wild woman in bed was

the thought that she was inthe presence of power. And there was no one more
powerful in Lucknow
than the state's chief minister.
The reporter standing outside the door to the bedroom was untidyand unkempt. His
shirt was drenched in patches of sweat, his cheaptrousers were crumpled and the
shoelaces of his right shoe were dangerously
undone. His Buddy Holly-style glasses were greasy and histhick dark hair sprinkled
little specks of dandruff on his shoulders.
Around his neck, however, hung a very sleek Agilux cam

era—manufactured in England—with an uncoupled rangefinder. Thepayoff to the
reporter had been generous—almost one month's pay.
The tip-off had been perfect—the venue, date and time typed neatlyon a slip of
unmarked and unsigned paper. It was going to be thebiggest scoop of his life.
The maidservant stationed outside the bedroom signalled for himto try the door handle.
He gingerly tiptoed to the door, placed hishand on the doorknob and tried it. It was
unlocked. Obviously. Themaidservant had unlocked it with her own key. The reason for
themaidservant's cooperation lay in his hands—a rather large parcelwrapped in brown
paper and tied with string. It contained a new miracle
drug to fight tuberculosis—a drug produced and available onlyin America at the time.
The private detective keeping an eye on Gulbadan's kotha hadsuggested that the girl
could be used. Investigation had revealed thatthe girl's mother was dying of
tuberculosis and that the girl was infinancial trouble trying to keep up with medical bills.
A new medicalbreakthrough for tuberculosis patients had been recently discoveredand
Gangasagar had asked Agrawalji to import the medicine throughone of his business
contacts in New York. Getting the girl to agree toparticipate in the sting had been
child's play thereafter.
The reporter let go of the doorknob and silently gestured forthe girl to grasp the handle
while he brought the camera to his
eye. He whispered, ‘At the count of three, fling open the
door—one—two—three!’ As she flung open the door, he clicked thecamera once
intuitively. He then searched for the cavorting couple,
directed the viewfinder towards them and clicked again. He wantedto take a third but
knew he would not have time. The chief minister
yelled for his security. ‘Guards!’ he shouted, ‘catch this impudentdog!’ But it was too
late.

The reporter's exit route through the servants’ entrance had beenpredetermined in
collaboration with the maidservant while theguards were discreetly seated in the chief
minister's Ambassador carin the driveway to the house.

The reporter heaved a sigh of relief as he emerged into one of thedark alleys that ran
northwards from the house. He picked up paceas he began planning his story for his
editor and the next morning'spaper. He thought about the photographs captured on his
roll of film.
He laughed to himself. The only fucking difference between erotica and
porn is the lighting, he thought to himself.
‘He has resigned!’ cried Gangasagar triumphantly, ‘I knew that wehad to play the man,
not the ball.’
‘You mean the balls,’ said Ikram wryly.
‘That too,’ said the excited Gangasagar, ignoring the joke. ‘Withhis resignation, his
party will be in disarray. The left jab that we havejust thrown must be followed in quick
succession by a right uppercut.
It will ensure that the party is unable to recover and regroup,’
he said, popping another paan into his mouth.
‘Who's the next most powerful person after the chief minister ofthe state?’
‘The state's home minister,’ said Ikram.
‘And what's the home minister's job?’
‘Maintaining law and order.’
‘What happens if law and order deteriorate?’
‘His colleagues would be reluctant to project him as their alternative

candidate.’
‘Ikram, as mayor, you have direct access to the police commissioner,
don't you?’
‘Rascals like me, and the cops, always have a direct connection,’
laughed Ikram. ‘What exactly do you want done?’
Rajjo Bhaiya sat in the driver's seat of his rugged Mahindra jeep,
wiping his bushy black moustache. In his hand he held a steel
mug half-filled with thandai.The first half of the mugful of icedmilk—flavoured with
almonds, sugar, fennel, rose petals, pepper,
cardamom, saffron, and a generous lacing of white poppyseeds—was already swirling
inside his belly. Under trial in twentysix
criminal cases including several of murder, assault and possessionof illegal
weapons, Rajjo was a member of the state assembly. Aconfidant of the chief minister
who had been caught with his pantsdown, Rajjo was the other ugly secret of the state's
political underbelly.
Sitting next to him was the police commissioner, an old chum whohad specifically
asked for the meeting in this isolated location. Hecould not be seen conversing with
Rajjo—supposedly the enemy. Theindignant press and a gullible public would never
accept the realitythat Rajjo and the police chief owed their respective occupations
toone another. Men like Rajjo were criminals in civvies and, quite often,
cops were simply criminals in uniform. The police commissionerwas determinedly
picking his nose. Midway through his explorationhe realised that his throat was itching
and he gurgled a deep, guttural

cough, brought the offending lump of phlegm to his mouth andspat it out on the
ground. Picking his nose and clearing his throatwere his favourite hobbies, it seemed.
‘The little cuntface has asked me to investigate all pending casesand to make an
example of you,’ said the police commissioner at last.
‘Has he fucking lost his mind? Doesn't the motherfucker understand
that it will hurt the party's own position? I'm a prominentmember of the ruling party,
aren't I? How's this going to help himwin elections?’ demanded an enraged Rajjo.
‘At this moment the state home minister's bigger priority is toshow his colleagues that
he has balls. Once his own position is secure,
he'll start worrying about the party's performance!’ said thecommissioner, successfully
plucking a nose hair that was irritatinghim.
‘In that case I'll show the pussyface what I'm capable of,’ shoutedRajjo, throwing the
rest of the thandai onto the soft ground outsidethe open jeep door.
‘There's one way you could send him a signal without declaringopen hostilities that
would lead to a complete breakdown of law andorder,’ suggested the police
commissioner helpfully.
‘And what's that?’ grunted Rajjo.
‘You could challenge him politically. Hold a rally in his constituency.
That should shake him up a little.’
Rajjo smiled. Two of his front teeth were gold. He flashed what hethought was a
winning smile and said, ‘Who made you into a paperpushing
police commissioner, eh? You should have been a minister—and
I don't mean the praying kind!’

‘I told him not to hold that rally, sir. I explained that it could causea law and order
problem. He assured me he would reconsider his decision.
Obviously he didn't,’ explained the police commissioner to aworried home minister of
Uttar Pradesh.
‘So the whorebanger thinks that I will simply accept his outrightrebellion?’ shouted the
minister. ‘I'm worried that he'll have the entire
party in disarray. Arrest him today!’
The minister was rocking his chair furiously. ‘Worry is like a rocking
chair,’ thought the police commissioner to himself. ‘It keeps youbusy but gets you
fucking nowhere.’ He cut short his musings andspoke up.
‘That may not be wise, sir. He has a considerable following fromhis own caste. They
see him as a Robin Hood of sorts. We would beplaying into his hands by arresting
him,’ said the police commissioner
conspiratorially.
‘I'll end up appearing weak and indecisive if I don't arrest him.
How's that going to look? You bureaucrats never have to worry aboutfighting elections.
For you, survival means hanging on until retirement;
for politicians like me survival is about making it till Sundaymorning!’
‘I understand your sentiments, sir. May I make a humble suggestion?’
‘Go on,’ said the agitated minister.
‘Why not round up his known associates instead? We'll releasethem on bail later. It will
send a signal that you will not tolerate insubordination,
and yet you'll stop short of lashing out at him directly.
You'll take the wind out of his sails, sir. He won't have a leg tostand on.’

The home minister of Uttar Pradesh smiled. He was an old man of
seventy-five. His teeth had been replaced by dentures, which movedin every direction
other than the one he wanted. Giving the policechief a dentureinspired grin he said,
‘Why the fuck aren't you inpolitics? God knows you're devious enough.’
He had stopped rocking his chair.
‘Look at these warring criminals, my friends. They say that they'reserious about your
safety and security. The truth is that they're busyprotecting each other—your safety be
damned!’ exploded Ikrambhaito the sound of applause.
‘Why is that rascal, Rajjo, free to roam about in spite of twenty-sixpending criminal
cases?’ he thundered. There was applause.
‘Why is he allowed to thumb his nose at the home minister by roving
around the home minister's own constituency? Doesn't it tell youthat they're thick as
thieves?’ There was louder applause.
‘Why is this home minister protecting known criminals? Our efficient
police commissioner has rounded up hundreds of Rajjo's associates.
In each instance, he has been pressured by his political mastersto release these men
on bail. Why shouldn't we demand the resignation
of this spineless creature that dares to call himself home minister?’
Thunderous applause and hoots of approval followed.
‘You have made an instant hero out of Ikram,’ commented Agrawalji.
‘He could quite easily be a claimant for the position of chief ministerif the ABNS
performs decently in the elections.’
‘That's precisely my problem,’ said Gangasagar. ‘He's not the rightman for the job.’
‘Are you mentally unstable, Ganga? You've created him fromscratch. Now when he's
on the verge of capturing the reins of powerin Uttar Pradesh, you want him to back off?
Unbelievable!’ mutteredAgrawalji.

‘Have you heard of atropine?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘No. What is it?’
‘It's a poison. It is extracted from a plant called Deadly Nightshade.’
‘You plan to poison Ikram, Ganga? Isn't that overdoing things?’
‘I'm simply telling you that this dangerous poison—atropine—is
also used as an antidote to nerve agents. Even though it's a poison, itcan fight a bigger
menace when it's used in small doses.’
‘So Ikram is the poison that's to be used in small doses?’
‘Unfortunately, he's now past the expiry date on the label.’
She walked towards her shanty, satchel slung over her shoulder. Herpocket money for
the day had been spent on a bag of spiced peanuts—
tangy lemon-and-red chilliflavoured peanuts were her favourite
snack. As the teenage girl hummed a tune from the latest Bollywood
flick that her father had splurged on the previous week, shethought about flying away
to a new world—one in which there wasno poverty, disease, decay, and squalor.
Chandini did not notice theinebriated goon who had been following her.
She was a few minutes away from home and took a right turnthat led her into a
windowless alley between two tenements. Shewas nearing the bend of the isolated
stretch when he reached out

and grabbed her by her shoulders from behind. She spun around andfaced him, the
peanuts falling to the ground, scattering around her.
He lunged forward in an attempt to grab her breasts. His stinkingbreath repelled her
and she screamed, but something prevented hervoice from carrying. It was his hand.
He had managed to spin heraround, clamp down a hand on her mouth from behind,
leaving hisother hand free to molest her. He pressed his hardness into her frombehind
and she struggled, desperate to free herself from his lecherous
clutch.
She opened her mouth and bit down hard, capturing some of theflesh of his fingers. He
screamed in anguish and instinctively let goof her. She swung around, looked him in
the eyes, smiled at him,
took aim and kicked him right between his legs. He doubled over inagony, holding his
balls, muttering curses at her.
Chandini smiled. The weak little girl had vanished for that solitarymoment. She said,
‘The next time you try to touch me, I shall be sopowerful, I shall simply order your
castration.’
She then ran home sobbing.
‘I want her,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I need her badly.’
‘But Gangasagarji, little Chandini is already sixteen. I must nowget her married. How
can I leave her with you?’ asked Gupta.
‘Haven't I delivered on all the promises I made?’ asked Gangasagar,
pointing to the new school and hospital in the distance.
‘Moreover, she will become immensely powerful one day. You shall

e proud of her. I promise!’
‘What work will she do within the party?’
‘At this moment I want her to complete her education abroad.
When she returns she'll be an ordinary party worker. She'll visitconstituencies where
natural calamities—floods, famine, drought orearthquakes—have displaced
populations. She will work along with
the party workers to endear herself to them. She must build a political
and social platform she can stand on.’
‘What else do you want from me, Gangasagarji?’
‘I need you to allow her to be adopted.’
‘Are you out of your mind, Gangasagarji? She has living parents andyou want her to
find new ones? What's wrong with the ones that shehas?’ shouted Gupta,
paanstreaked spittle spewing from his mouth.
‘I want Ikrambhai to adopt her.’
‘You aremad! Allow my darling daughter to be adopted by aMuslim? No! A thousand
times no!’
‘She shall be adopted in name only. She shall continue to be your
daughter.’
‘But why this outrageous plan?’
‘If Ikrambhai adopts her, I shall achieve three significant things.
Firstly, the cost of her education abroad shall be borne by Ikrambhai.
Second, Ikram will see her as a daughter and natural political successor.
And third, it will give her universal acceptability in India—aHindu girl with Muslim
parents. Wonderful political combination,’
he mused.
‘But if he adopts her, then she will cease to be my daughter!’
wailed Gupta.
‘Shariat—Muslim Personal Law—does not recognise adoption.’

‘So how would he adopt her if his own law does not validate it?’
‘He must prove in civil court that the adoption is a custom allowedby his specific
regional community.’
‘And is it allowed?’
‘No. Adoption is prevalent amongst many classes of Muslims inPunjab, Sindh,
Kashmir, Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh. But it isn'tcommon among Muslims of Uttar
Pradesh. Ikram won't be able toprove anything in court.’
‘I don't get it. You want him to adopt her so that his own religiouslaw as well as the civil
court can overrule the adoption?’
‘Absolutely. The adoption cannot be legalised, so she stays yourdaughter. But the
sentiment is there and politics is all about sentiment
and symbolism. She will symbolically represent a union of twogreat faiths—Hinduism
and Islam.’
‘Why would Ikrambhai adopt her in the first place?’
‘Because she would get him Hindu votes just as he gets her Muslimones! It shall be a
symbiotic relationship.’
‘No, no, and no. A thousand times—no! I refuse to be adopted byIkrambhai.’
‘Chandini. Listen to—’
‘No. Uncle Ganga, I know he's your political ally, but I have a decent
father and a caring mother. I will not be adopted by Ikrambhai.’
‘I am not asking you to renounce your parents. Your parents willremain your parents.
No one can ever change that. I am simply building
up your political resumè, my girl—’
‘But how can I give up my parents? It's too high a price to pay!’
‘You were lucky that you did not get raped, Chandini,’ said Gangasagar
quietly.
‘Luck had nothing to do with it.’

‘But what if it had been someone else? Do you know that a woman
gets raped every half an hour in India?’
‘No. I never—’
‘Do you know that a woman gets killed every two hours—usually
for not bringing in a large enough dowry?’
‘Yes—I mean—no—I don't know—’
‘Do you want to be one of those statistics, Chandini?’ ‘No, UncleGanga.’ ‘Don't you
want to rule the country? Be powerful? Neverhave to be at any man's mercy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don't you want to get away from this filth and poverty that sur
rounds you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don't you want the very best international education that could
propel your career? Make your life?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then do what I say! Let Ikram adopt you!’
The girl nodded silently in acquiescence and Gangasagar smiled.
He would need to ensure that Ikram's goon, who had been given theassignment of
following and terrorising the girl, kept his mouth shut.
‘Adi Shakti,
Namo Namah;
Sarab Shakti,
Namo Namah;
Prithum Bhagvati,
Namo Namah;
Kundalini Mata Shakti;
Mata Shakti,
NamoNamah,’
he muttered softly to himself.

CHAPTER FIVE
About 2300 years ago
The smell of human excrement was overpowering. The harsh stonefloor was slick with
a thick slime of blood, sweat, urine and faecal
matter. The fetid bowels of Dhanananda's prison complex heraldedthe arrival of the
new visitor with the bloodcurdling screams of tortured
inmates. The dim light provided by a few flaming torches revealed
little of the roughly-hewn rock walls with an assortment ofchains and restraints bolted
to them.
As the gate to the filthy cell slammed shut, Chanakya feltsomething slither over his
foot, probably a snake. He instinctivelyslammed down his other foot on the slippery
creature and held hisfoot down until he felt the reptile lying motionless. He stood glued
tothe spot for quite some time, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark.
As his pupils dilated, he was able to discern a couple of rats fightingover a piece of
flesh, quite possibly human.
‘One may wash one's anus a hundred times and it will still be vile,’
thought Chanakya, ‘and Dhanananda may hand out a thousand endowments
to Brahmins but he will still remain corrupt!’ Chanakya setabout finding himself a
corner that was least polluted and eventuallysat himself down with his back against a
damp wall. The cell did nothave any windows. There was a complete absence of
ventilation. Heclosed his eyes and began his pranayama—the yogic breathing
exercises
taught by the venerable sage Dandayan—to help him cope withthe unhealthy
conditions.

Unexpectedly he heard a click and saw a thin dancing sliver oflight emerge through the
gate. It was a dwarf holding an oil lamp inhis hand. He quietly raised his finger to his
lips, signalling to Chanakya for complete silence. With a quick jerk of his head he
motionedChanakya to get up and follow him.
The little man led him to an extremely constricted cavity alongone of the walls. The
midget did not seem to mind the narrow spaceas he efficiently tied a rope firmly around
Chanakya's waist. Chanakya
did not know where the other end of the rope was located. Suddenly
he felt a tug and found himself being lifted off his feet. Hewas in some sort of chute
that was extremely tight and claustrophobic.
During the upward ascent, Chanakya's face, thighs and handsgrazed the duct surfaces
and either burned from friction or bled fromgashes. After what seemed like an eternity,
he felt cool air and heardthe sound of running water. He was back along the banks of
theGanges.
He was startled to see an entire band of dwarves pulling the ropethat held him. Their
leader stepped forward and explained. ‘Do notbe alarmed, acharya. Katyayanji asked
us to help. He needed usgnomes to access the ancient escape duct leading from the
prison. Asyou've observed, the passage is very narrow—and that's after we'vewidened
it for you.’
‘I am grateful to you and to Katyayanji, but who are you? Whatis it that you do for a
living?’ asked Chanakya, intuitively inquisitiveeven in distress.
‘Dwarves have always had a very important function in Magadha,
acharya. We've usually been guarders of the royal kosh—the treasury.
As you know, most royal treasuries are established in concealedspots and have secret
corridors not accessible to thieves and bandits.
We small people are ideal guards.’

‘But you're servants of the king. Why would you help me?’
‘Our greater wish was to help our beloved former prime minister,
Shaktarji, who created the royal kosh in the first place, and the system
of dwarves guarding it. He has remained a prisoner here formany years. We have
quietly and determinedly been working on extending
this passage for several months now and were able to gethim out just moments before
you. Getting you out was our next move. Katyayanji and Senapati Maurya assembled
us for this mission.’
‘Senapati Maurya—the commander-in-chief of Magadha's army?
He's working against Dhanananda?’
‘It's better that he tells you himself, sir.’
‘Where is Prime Minister Shaktarji?’
‘He's already been taken to Pipplivan where Senapati Mauryaawaits him. He needs to
be kept secure from the king and there's nosafer place than the camp of Senapati
Maurya. Acharya, you're alsoto proceed to Pipplivan immediately. The alarm will have
been soundedand the royal guards will be searching for you. I have a horsewaiting.’
‘But what of Katyayanji? I have to meet him and apologise forhaving unleashed my
temper in Dhanananda's court,’ said Chanakya.
‘He knows you too well, sir. He's also on the side of truth andjustice. He believes,
however, that he can do much more to eradicateDhanananda and his abominable
government by being inside ratherthan outside. He says that you're the tiger that will
attack Dhanananda from the outside while he's simply the germ that willcreate a storm
inside Dhanananda's stomach!’
In the quiet of the dark night—not unlike the dark night whenChanakya had cremated
his father and fled—they set off for Pipplivan
on horseback.
It was still a few hours before dawn when they reached Pipplivan—

not much more than a cluster of huts and mud-brick houseslocated along the banks of
a stream. The Lilliputian horsemen ledhim to one of the slightly larger houses. The
senapati was awake andconferring with someone who got up and left the moment their
partyarrived.
Senapati Maurya was relieved to see Chanakya safe. He bowed before
the acharya and said ‘Magadha needs you, O wise teacher. Helpme rid my motherland
of the leeches that are sucking her dry!’
‘The time's not yet ripe, Senapati. The only great achievementsthat make it to the
pages of history are those to which tremendousthought and preparation have been
given.’
‘I await your guidance, revered teacher. But come, you must betired. And your wounds
and scratches need to be cleaned. I'll askmy wife to provide clean garments and some
breakfast. Please followme, I'll show you where you can bathe.’
‘Better treatment than I would have expected at the hands of avrishala,’ thought
Chanakya to himself. Maurya was considered avrishala—an outcaste Kshatriya—by
upper-caste Brahmins such asChanakya. Maurya's father had abandoned the strict
caste hierarchyof Hinduism to adopt the ways of the great teacher, Gautam Buddha.
The senapati had eventually returned to the folds of Hinduism butwould permanently
bear the mark of Hindu indignation towards theprodigal by being branded a vrishala.
Bathed, dressed, and morning prayers concluded, Chanakya sat onthe little terrace
outside Maurya's hut. The senapati's wife had placedbefore him a simple breakfast of
millet porridge and hot milk. Thesun had just risen and peacocks were dancing in the
garden outside,
their iridescent blue-green plumage fanning out to reveal their mysteriously
beautiful feathered eyes. This was the land of peacocks, andMaurya derived his own
family name from them—mor—peacock.

Outside the house, a group of young boys was busy in a game ofrole-playing. One of
them had tied a scarf around his head and hadtucked a peacock feather into his
headband. He was the make-believe
emperor, sitting atop a large rock. The other boys standingaround him were either
subjects or court officials.
‘Attention! The court of the wise and benevolent MaharajChandragupta, Emperor of
the world, is now in session. Come and be heard!’ droned a boy playing the role of
prime minister and standingby the king's side.
‘O great King. I'm in trouble. My neighbour sold me his well buthe continues to draw
water from it. Please stop him,’ pleaded a boyacting the part of the aggrieved.
‘Who is the seller of the well?’ asked the miniature king.
‘I am, my lord. But I sold him the well, not the water inside it.
Please let your justice prevail,’ replied another boy, slightly older.
Addressing the senior one, the king grandly pronounced, ‘You'reright. You sold the
well, not the water. This would mean that you'rewrongly keeping water in someone
else's well. Please empty it! Nextcase!’
Chanakya chuckled to himself. He was watching this little dramawith great interest. He
decided to join the fun. He got up from theterrace where he was seated, walked up and
stood before the king with folded hands.
‘Yes, Brahmin? What is it that you want?’ asked the boy seriously.
‘O illustrious King, I'm a poor Brahmin. I need milk and ghee forthe yajnas—the
rituals—that I perform but I have no cow. Please assist
me, O protector of the land,’ said Chanakya earnestly.
‘Treasurer! Give this Brahmin a cow,’ commanded the king as themock official came
forward to hand Chanakya a pebble—the substitute
cow.
‘But I don't have any money to pay for it, my king,’ explainedChanakya.

‘O Brahmin. If your offerings to the gods are inadequate, how willthe bounty of my
kingdom be adequate? And if my kingdom is notprosperous, from where will I collect
taxes? And if there are no taxes,
what will happen to the treasury and the army? Who will defend thekingdom if there is
no army? So, you see, I am not doing you a favour.
I'm simply guaranteeing my own prosperity!’ explained the intellectual
giant of a boy.
Chanakya smiled and blessed the boy. ‘Who are you, child?’ heasked.
‘I am Chandragupta. The son of Senapati Maurya.’
‘Shall I take you to meet Shaktarji?’ enquired the senapati emergingfrom the house.
Chanakya nodded. It was time to meet his departedfather's dearest friend—a comrade
for whom Chanak had laid down his very life.
The old man that Chanakya saw was frail and battered. Yearsof deprivation, foul living
conditions, food unfit for human consumption,
sickness, and brutal repression had taken their toll on theformer prime minister.
Chanakya's memories of Shaktar were of anaristocratic and sophisticated noble,
always impeccably dressed inthe finest silks and adorned with the richest of gold and
diamondamulets, rings and necklaces. He could barely recognise what onceused to be
the secondmost powerful man in the kingdom.
Chanakya prostrated himself before Shaktar and the old manasked him to rise. When
Chanakya got up and saw Shaktar's face, theoctogenarian had tears in his eyes. He
reached out his hand to placeit on Chanakya's head to bless him affectionately.
‘You're the only son that I have left, Chanakya. My real sons areall dead. And my
daughter—Suvasini—whom you loved so dearly, isworse than dead. Your father never
broached the topic but I knewthat he wanted you and my daughter to eventually marry,
mergingboth families into one.’
Chanakya remained silent.
What terrible conjunction of planets in my horoscope has produced

this endless nightmare? My wife, dead; my best friend Chanak,
dead; my sons, dead; my daughter, a concubine of Rakshas; my body,
shattered and weak; the kingdom—in the hands of a psychopath!’
continued the old man as his misery flooded over.
Chanakya gripped Shaktar's hand and said, ‘The nightmare shallend soon. I promise.
But you need to stir yourself from this troubledslumber. One must awake, see the rays
of the sun, and realise that itwas all just a terrible dream. Help me, Shaktarji and
senapatiji.’
‘What do I possess that can help you, Chanakya?’ asked SenapatiMaurya.
‘Chandragupta.’
‘And what do I have that can possibly help?’ asked Shaktar.
‘The dwarves.’
The kings of Magadha knew that an army moves on its stomach. Theroyal treasury—
the rajakosh—was even more critical than the armyitself because the treasury was the
fuel that propelled the fightingmachine. Mining was a state monopoly so all the gold,
silver or precious
stones mined in the land automatically found their way to therajakosh.
The protection and security of the rajakosh was achieved in various
ways. The official state treasury would always be located in thecapital but be built in
such a way that access to the prized metals andgems would be through three
underground floors of trapdoors andremovable ladders. The wall and floors of the
underground structure
would lie encased in an extra-thick layer of stone so that anyambitious tunnel thief
would find his access permanently blocked.
The treasury would usually be located in the northern quarter ofthe capital, sandwiched
between the royal residence and the city'smain temple. Concentric circles of guards
would police the treasuryday and night, while sharpshooters with bows and poisoned
arrowswould man the innumerable towers that surrounded the rajakosh. Itwas instant
death for any thug seeking material gratification.

The other measure of security was to decentralise the rajakosh andto create secret
troves in remote locations. Usually, condemned prisoners would build such remote
treasure hides and would be executed shortly thereafter. With the exception of the king
and his prime minister, no one would know the whereabouts of such clandestine
stores.
Very often, the actual storehouse would be built in a pit undergroundwith narrow secret
passages for access. On purpose, many of thesewould be built to prevent access to a
full-grown adult and, often,
the only way to reach the store would be by sending down traineddwarves. The hoard
would usually be camouflaged with dense vegetation,
snakes, scorpions and wild animals let loose in the environs todiscourage bountyseekers.
Chanakya knew that the previous prime minister, Shaktar, wouldbe aware of any
covert repository of Dhanananda, and that the keyto accessing the prize would be
Katyayan's dwarves.
The jungles to the north of Pipplivan were vast and foreboding. Arranged
in concentric circles like the layers of an onion, each peeledaway to reveal another,
even more dark and isolated. The outermostskin was that of productive thickets used
for producing timber, herbsand medicinal plants; further inside lay the ascetic
woodlands reserved
for holy men's ashrams and penances; travelling inwards onereached the hunting
parks used by kings and nobles for sport; another
peel and one reached the elephant reserves managed by thestate for breeding of
elephants that would be used in the army; andfinally, the innermost circle consisted of
wildlife sanctuaries, wherelions, tigers, leopards and cheetahs roamed free. The secret
rajakoshrevealed by Shaktar was located within this core.
The horses had been left with a rather relieved band of guardsat least one yojana—
about four miles—back. The dense vegetationand the virtual absence of any pathway
had made it impossible forthe beasts to travel any further. Chanakya, Senapati Maurya
andJeevasiddhi—a trusted aide of Katyayan—and their band of dwarvesmade slow

ut steady progress. The map provided by Shaktar wasproving to be quite useful and
most of the key landmarks had beenfound in spite of the constantly changing forest
environment.
The team had been chosen very carefully for the expedition. If onetook too many
people on a treasure hunt one risked the possibility ofinformation reaching the ears of
Dhanananda. If the team was pared,
one ran the risk of being killed by wild animals or being left withinadequate hands to
cart the loot.
They were nearing a pile of boulders overrun by vines that had aggressively
taken over territory in their amorous embrace. Chanakya'scalculations told him he was
very near the final destination, but before
he could consult his map he heard the whoosh of an arrow andfelt the heat of the
missile graze his left cheek. Immediately alert, heraised his sword to engage in combat
with the offender, and foundthat it was none other than Jeevasiddhi, who was still
pointing another
arrow—duly loaded in his taut and tense bow—in his direction.
Any ordinary man would have viewed Jeevasiddhi suspiciously,
but not Chanakya. From Jeevasiddhi's eyes he could discern thateven though his
weapons were pointed at him, his eyes were lookingbeyond him. Chanakya calmly
swung around with his back toJeevasiddhi and saw the body of an enormous tiger that
had beencaught mid-leap by his protector's projectile. The beautiful beast layon the
ground with the arrow half-piercing his neck.
Chanakya turned around, placed his sword back in its sheath, andraised his hand in a
gesture of blessing towards Jeevasiddhi. Nowords were exchanged but the silent
pantomime had conveyed thefull import of a thousand words. From that day onwards,
Jeevasiddhiwould be one of the acharya's trusted lieutenants.
They stealthily crept towards the boulders, thick with a carpet ofmoss and creepers.
Chanakya instructed Senapati Maurya to removefrom his cloth pouch a dry powder he

had supervised the mixingof. Maurya handed it over to the dwarves who went about
sprinkling
small quantities of the substance all around the rubble. It wasactually a dry rhizome of
mint oil, putrescent eggs, garlic, thymeoil and sulphur and smelled positively putrid.
Brahmins traditionallyshunned many of the ingredients such as eggs and garlic but
Chanakya had nonetheless remained present while the dwarves ground anddried the
mixture.
As the air filled with the stench of the terrible compound, therewas a sudden rustle as
scores of snakes slithered out of the stones
and fled from Chanakya's reptile repellant. Chanakya nodded, andSenapati Maurya
and Jeevasiddhi moved in to clear a path to thetrapdoor that would lead to a maze of
underground tunnels.
Camouflaged with boulders and overgrown vegetation, the trapdoor
was very small—certainly no more than around fifteen angulaswide—around a foot.
Senapati Maurya's mace shattered the ancientcopper locking mechanism and within a
few minutes they could seea dark and narrow vertical duct that led into the depths. A
long ropewas secured to one of the boulders and a dwarf cautiously made hisway
inside with a small flaming torch strapped to his head. A fewminutes later he yelled,
‘It's empty! I need to search for another door.
Send down the next man.’ A second dwarf followed the first, carrying
carpenter's tools. A while later the sounds of hammering revealedthat they had located
the trapdoor inside the first level. A third dwarfscampered down holding a loop of rope
that would be used to godown the second trapdoor.
‘Praise Lakshmi!’ shouted a dwarf from within. ‘We've hit the
mother lode!’ Chanakya, Senapati Maurya and Jeevasiddhi lookedat each other and
smiled. A few more dwarves were sent down
the passage so that a relay team could be set up for conveying instructions
and materials. ‘Send up small quantities of whatever lieswithin,’ instructed Chanakya.
‘We do not have enough men to carryeverything away. We should concentrate our

efforts on the richestand lightest material.’ An assortment of treasures began to appear
before
them—diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires, pure crystal, beryl,
silver panas and copper kakani.
‘Search for cow dung and sesame oil,’ instructed Chanakya.
The senapati and Jeevasiddhi looked at the acharya wonderingwhether he had gone
mad. Apparently he hadn't, because very soon, bricks of cow dung mixed with sesame
oil began to appear via therelay team. ‘Don't be fooled by the cow dung,’ explained
Chanakya to his accomplices. ‘All gold is purified with lead and the excess leadis
removed using cow dung. If the gold is brittle, it is softened insesame oil. Thus, the
ideal way to store gold is by encasing it in amixture of cow dung and sesame oil. What
you're seeing before youis pure gold!’
‘The first preference is to be given to gold, which is high invalue and also easily
monetised. The next priority should be silverpanas, and finally diamonds and rubies.
We do not wish to carrycopper, pearls, sapphire, or crystal. Please also ignore other
treasurycommodities such as sandalwood, aloe, incense, and camphor,’ continued
Chanakya. Maurya and Jeevasiddhi were amazed at Chanakya's
depth of knowledge in matters of treasure and asked, ‘Acharya,
you're a holy man—a revered teacher. Why do you concern yourselfwith articles of
wealth?’
Chanakya answered them, while keeping one eye firmly glued tothe little mountain of
precious articles that was taking shape beforethem. ‘What should a man strive for?
Kama—love, dharma—duty,
artha—wealth, and moksha—salvation. But the fact is that neither
your wife nor your children will love you if you're poor, no singlecitizen will ever perform
his duty if he's not motivated by financialincentives or penalties, and which man can
renounce his worldly lifein quest of salvation if he does not have wealth to support the
familyhe leaves behind? I'm a teacher—but a teacher of arthashastra, the
science of wealth. The source of livelihood of men is wealth, and the

science of the means of attaining and protecting it is politics!’
Chanakya and his accomplices headed back to Pipplivan, their horsesladen with
abundant treasures and armed guards in tow. That evening,
sitting outside with a campfire for warmth, Chanakya broachedthe topic. ‘Senapati, you
have done your duty and lived your life. Butyour vision of a grand and prosperous
Magadha can only be realisedthrough Chandragupta, who has all the traits of a king.
Let me takehim to Takshila where I can prepare him for kingship. In the mean
time, you can start using the treasury that we've just gained to helpme build an army.’
The commander reflected on Chanakya's words and spoke.
‘Acharya. He's my only son. I can't bear to be parted from him. Can'tyou stay here with
us instead?’ Chanakya smiled. ‘I wish it were thateasy to unite a kingdom, Senapati.
As we speak, the borders at Gandhar are in imminent danger of being attacked by
Alexander's battalions. If Gandhar falls, the rest of Bharat will follow. How does one
keep the enemy out if the door has already been forced open? Thearmy that I wish to
raise from the wealth that we've acquired is tofight the Macedonian intrusions, as well
as to create a glue that canconsolidate the fractious petty kingdoms that never seem to
unite onany issue—not even critical ones,’ he elucidated.
‘In that case, should my wife and I come along with you andChandragupta to
Takshila?’ asked Maurya. ‘I don't think that's a goodidea,’ argued Chanakya.
‘Chandragupta has far greater chance of success if you're not with him. You're a direct
enemy of Dhananandaand his spies will always be on the lookout for you. Studying
amonghundreds of students at Takshila will keep Chandragupta anonymousand out of
danger. Above all, I need you, Shaktarji and Katyayanji, tobe in or around Magadha so
that we have adequate feet on the streetto give Dhanananda the trouble he deserves
by the time Chandragupta returns.’
The senapati called out to his wife who had been listening to theconversation from
within the house. As she came out and warmed her hands from the campfire, Maurya
asked her what she thought ofthe acharya's suggestion. Her words bore the stamp of a

true Kshatrayin—the wife of a warrior. ‘We were among the few lucky ones toreceive
some of Buddha's ashes. Let's remember that our revered lord
renounced his entire kingdom in his quest for moksha. As Kshatriyas,
our duty lies in protecting all life. If we must renounce our sonfor a greater purpose, so
be it,’ she said simply. ‘A Brahmin withoutknowledge or a Kshatriya without courage is
of little use to society.’
Senapati Maurya was born of the union of Mahanandin, the powerfulShishunga ruler of
Magadha, and his wife Mura, the only daughterof the chief of the Moriyas—the warrior
tribes of Pipplivan. AlthoughSenapati Maurya would have made an excellent successor
to Mahanandin,
the old king had many other sons who were consideredmore appropriate for the role.
As it turned out, none of his better-qualified sons would ever make it to the throne. Old
Mahanandinwas very fond of his barber, a shrewd, smooth-talking fellow
calledMahapadma. Mahapadma was the illegitimate child of a Kshatriyafather and a
Shudra mother.
The wily barber Mahapadma ingratiated himself not only withthe king but also his
queen, Sunanda. Before long he had graduatedfrom shaving the king to fornicating
with the queen. Having screwedthe queen, the barber, with the help of the queen,
decided to screwthe king as well, by bumping him off and all other claimants to
thethrone. The only one left alive was a little boy—Maurya—who wassimply too young
to be perceived as a threat.
Although Mahapadma was a mere barber, he possessed an uncanny
raw intelligence. He recognised the talent of Senapati Mauryaand eventually made him
the commander of his armed forces. Mahapadma
was a tyrant, but a benevolent one. Under his reign, crimebecame virtually nonexistent
and the petty nobles who had becometyrants during Mahanandin's reign were
ruthlessly put down. Mahapadma conquered most of north Bharat and the Deccan,
andbrought vast tracts of land, from the Himalayas to Kuntala, andfrom the Jamuna to

the Brahmaputra, under his authority and madeMagadha into the most powerful state
in north Bharat. Though hewas a Kshatriya-Shudra, he patronised Brahmins and
learned gurussuch as Vararuchi, Vyadi and Varsha. High levels of efficiency,
strongmilitary authority, fair taxation, massive irrigation projects, and anoverall attitude
of benevolence and tolerance characterised his reign.
The golden period would change dramatically under his son Dhanananda. Senapati
Maurya was seen as a liability rather than anasset by the twisted son. The man who
had helped Mahapadma conquer most of Bharat was now a fugitive himself—and was
seethingwith anger for having been made one.
Chanakya loved anger. It was a wonderfully energetic emotionand could be used very
productively if channelled in the right direction.
CHAPTER SIX
Present Day
Miss Feversham slowly looked her up and down. ‘I'm going to bebrutally honest. Your
shoulders are rounded, your knees aretight and your tummy's sticking out.’ It was
another excruciating hourof intensive instruction. Chandini instinctively pulled in her
tummyand tried lifting her shoulders. The result was even more awkward.
Miss Feversham sighed. This was going to be very difficult indeed.

Chandini was in Miss Feversham's finishing school in London—andwas utterly
finished. ‘You have one shoulder higher than the otherand your feet roll outwards. Your
slouch is unladylike.’
Chandini was made to stand up and sit down several times, andher movements were
observed in excruciating detail. ‘You're takingup a lot of space. And look at all those
angles when you stand up. Youalso fidget too much with your hands. You look a bit
like a mouse. Amouse is a humble thing. When you walk you must lead with the
solarplexus, situated somewhere around the bottom of your bra. Hold yourhead up and
keep your neck elongated!’ said Miss Feversham, runninga stick between Chandini's
arms and back to keep her shoulders down,and straight.
Over the past month, Miss Feversham had focused on the girl's English.
Chandini's English skills, acquired in a slum school of Kanpur, were fine for impressing
her own parents but were of no help incommunicating in England. Miss Feversham's
lessons concentrated onhelping Chandini communicate effectively and confidently in
everyday, idiomatic English. The wideranging syllabus was geared to improving
her listening, reading, writing and speaking abilities.
But knowing the language was insufficient. Chandini needed to betaught how to use a
fork and knife—if there are several pieces of cutlery, use forks, knives or spoons
on the outside first; how to order food in a pub—could you tell me what he soup
of the day is, please; how to attend a party—take a bottle of wine or some flowers
or chocolates to present to the host; how to pay a restaurant bill—if the bill says
service not included, it's usual to add about ten per cent by way of a tip;how to drink
tea—if the teapot contains loose tea,place the tea trainer onto the cup before pouring;
and how to eat scones the proper way—use a knife to cut the scone into two halves,
put jam on each side,there's no need to add butter first,then spread clotted cream on
top carefully.Eat the top and bottom halves separately and please do not try to make
them into a sandwich.
‘When you speak, keep your hand movements slow and graceful.

And when you are about to sit, stand at right angles to the front ofthe chair, twist your
upper half, lower yourself down and tuck oneleg behind the other. It must be done
slowly and with no accompanying sound,’ explained Miss Feversham to the girl.
‘When it comes to physical contact, the English are still deeplyreserved. The preferred
English handshake has no hint of lingering.
“How do you do?” signals the end of the greeting and there shouldnot be any deviation
from this. Women who know each other wellmay kiss each other on one or both
cheeks. When women do, the“miss kiss” is to be used, the kisser making a kissing
gesture with theappropriate sound in the air in the general region of the recipient'sears.
Men may kiss women in greeting, but only on one cheek, notboth,’ explained Miss
Feversham to the bewildered girl.
The English were crazy.
Oxfordshire was one of England's most picturesque cities. Chandiniwas awed by the
architectural grandeur and historical import of theuniversity, established eight hundred
years ago. The glorious buildings of the Bodleian Library, the Radcliffe Camera, the
SheldonianTheatre and the Ashmolean Museum blended together seamlessly tocreate
a heady mix of history, culture, liberated thought and intel lectual freedom. Like all
newbies, Chandini walked up to the top ofCarfax Tower and then panted her way up
the steps of the UniversityChurch located on High Street, both of which provided
uninterrupted vistas of the breathtaking city.
Among all the colleges that dotted the Oxford University campus,
Christ Church College was the largest and most magnificent. Infact, the grand college
church doubled as the Oxford Cathedral. Towards the eastern side of Oxford ran the
most beautiful street in Europe—the alluring High Street, located close to two of
Oxford'smost idyllic parks—Headington Hill and South Park. It wasn't merelythe
buildings of Oxford that were impressive. God seemed to havebestowed all of nature's
abundance and splendour on a single city. Acres of undulating meadows, grazing farm
animals and sparklingstreams of the Thames created a virtual Eden.

Miss Feversham's finishing school had increased Chandini's confidence,
but the awkwardness of a shy and introverted girl from aKanpur slum suddenly
transplanted into the rarefied atmosphere ofOxford would remain for some more time.
Her trip from Paddingtonto St Hilda's—the all-women's college at Oxford—had been
terrifying on account of her overwhelming fear that everyone that she encountered
in Oxford would be intellectually, financially and sociallysuperior. The friendly family
atmosphere of St Hilda's Junior Common Room, however, put her at ease from the
very first moment.
She had been allotted a room in Garden Building, Wolfson, a partof St Hilda's grounds.
As she lugged her suitcase up to her room, atall lanky blonde stepped up to help her
with her luggage. ‘Hello. Myname's Josephine Richardson—I'm an art major. I think
you're theIndian girl who has been allotted the room next to mine.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Chandini, plucking up her courage fromMiss Feversham's
feverish drills, ‘and thanks for helping me with myluggage.’
‘No problem. Shall we head over to the Buttery when you're donesettling in?’ asked
Josephine.
‘The Butt—the what?’ asked Chandini.
‘The Buttery is St Hilda's tuck shop that sells toasties, chips, hotchocolate, and tea.
You'll find most of us girls there. I'll wait for you.
Ah! Here we are. The standard issue room comes with a single bedand blanket, a
desk, two chairs, a sink, a wardrobe, and a chest-ofdrawers—
you'll need your own bed linen, though. If you want I canshow you a nice place to buy
some.’ Chandini's fears and depression began to wear off rather quickly in the
presence of juiced-upJosephine.
The world's most renowned debating society had been establishedin 1823. It was
called the Oxford Union and stayed the focal pointof contentious debates unparalleled
in their content and influence.
The famous 1933 motion, ‘This House will under no circumstances

fight for King and Country’ had been passed by 275 votes to 153 inthe Oxford Union
and had ignited national indignation in the media.
Winston Churchill had condemned the ‘ever shameful motion’ as an ‘abject, squalid,
shameless avowal’. Many believed that the votehad played a significant role in
reinforcing Hitler's decision to invade Europe. Members of the Oxford Union couldn't
care less whatChurchill and the media thought. Divergence and forthrightness
remained central to the Union's founding philosophy.
Josephine and Chandini were attending an event organised by theUnion to welcome
its latest batch of members. As they were introduced to the president, Chandini
complimented him on the workdone by the Union in maintaining a free society through
open debate.
The president smiled at her as he shook her hand and said, ‘Afree society is one
where it's safe to be unpopular, but then, freedomof speech also carries with it the
freedom not to listen!’
At that moment, Chandini decided that this was going to be herforte, as she along with
the rest of the novices began the journey intothe fascinating world of political
argument.The chairman for the debate opened the Thursdaynight event witha few
words on the debate and voting procedures. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. It's a pleasure for
me to chair this debate, because there's noissue which has been as long running or as
divisive across the world.The motion for today is, this House believes that women
Must be legally guaranteed equal pay.’ He then called on the first speaker,
GeoffreyHemingford, to begin the debate.
It was the duty of the first speaker for the proposition to introducethe other speakers.
‘Mr Chairman, as the first speaker it is my honourto introduce your guests this evening.
The first speaker for the opposition,
Chandini Gupta is—possibly—Oxford's next prime ministerialcandidate for India. In the
past few years she has established an unblemished track record for winning

arguments irrespective of whether she actually believes them—an important trait for
any politician—
and I daresay that her personal views might possibly be atvariance with the official line
that she takes tonight. I'm delightedto be sparring with her. Supporting me is the
second speaker for theproposition, Elizabeth Lytton. Elizabeth's own job at Lytton,
Tryon& Yarborough is already guaranteed and deservedly so, I might add.
One of the brightest young minds of Oxford, Elizabeth will argue forthe motion. The
second speaker for the opposition, Victor Walsingham,shall follow. Victor has spent the
last twelve months of his self-imposed sabbatical travelling America and shall bring us
refreshinginsights from his observations of our cousins across the pond. MrChairman,
these are your guests and they are most welcome.’ Politeapplause from the audience
of around five hundred followed.
‘Mr Chairman,’ began Geoffrey, ‘the Representation of the PeopleAct, 1918, granted
women the right to vote in Great Britain. Butfunnily enough, only women who were
over the age of thirty andowned houses were deemed intelligent enough to place a
mark onballot slips. Ten years later the law was amended and all women overtwentyone
were given the right to vote. Should we have stood backand waited for natural
forces to right the wrong?’
Geoffrey noticed several women in the audience nodding theirheads in agreement and
pushed on. ‘For most women the blessings inthe years that followed the end of the war
were mixed indeed. Womenwho had held jobs of metalworkers and ironworkers in
aircraftand munitions factories suddenly found that their man's job and man's pay
had vanished. Rosie the Riveter reluctantly went back to waitingon tables as Rosie the
Waitress. At lower than pre-war levels of pay!
Equal pay, in effect, implied seventy-five per cent of the male rate.This fundamental
discrimination has carried through into our generation.Should we allow this gross
injustice to prevail?’ he demanded.
‘Mr Chairman, it is argued that if parliamentary interventionwere needed, the majority
of our honourable Members of Parliamentwould indeed have voted in favour of such a
motion by now. The argument offered is that the majority has not. I would like to

emindthis audience that sometimes a majority only means that all the foolsare on the
same side. This is the present case,’ said Geoffrey. Hesmiled acknowledging the loud
applause from the women presentand sat down.
Chandini arose and surveyed her audience. Men made up morethan half, so she knew
she had to get them on her side. She beganby introducing the first speaker for the
proposition, Geoffrey Hemingford,who had just spoken. Geoffrey was extremely
popular, havingbeen instrumental in Oxford's victory over Cambridge in the boatrace
the previous year. On race day, a quarter of a million spectatorshad crowded the
banks of the Thames from Putney to Mortlake towitness Geoffrey's team win the race.
Chandini knew that she neededto get votes—there was no point in winning an
argument and losingthe case.
‘Mr Chairman, as the first speaker for the opposition it is my pleasant
duty to introduce the first speaker for the proposition, Mr Geoffrey
Hemingford, not that he needs any introduction. You all knowthe old tale about our
friends from North Fens Polytechnic,’ she said,using the derogative term used by
Oxonians for Cambridge, ‘andtheir decision to field a rowing team. Even though they'd
practisefor hours each day, they never managed to beat Oxford. Finally, theteam
decided to send a spy. Their spy hid in the bushes and carefullywatched the Oxford
team—led by Geoffrey—at their daily practice.After two weeks the spy returned and
announced that he'd discoveredtheir rivals’ secret. “What? Tell us!” his teammates
said. “We should have just one guy yelling. The other eight should be rowing!”
said the spy.’ There was loud applause and appreciation forChandini's compliment to
the Oxonian rowing hero. She moved on, having won the affection of most of the men
in the audience.
‘Mr Chairman, it has been said that married men live significantlylonger than single
men. This in itself should be an argument in favour of women in the workplace. Their
mere presence would increase the longevity of their male colleagues. But I'm also
given tounderstand that while married men live significantly longer thansingle men,
they're apparently a lot more willing to die.’There was laughter from the audience. ‘And

that's one of the reasonsthat when a man steals your wife, there's no better revenge
thanto let him keep her,’ she said. There were even more laughs. Sheknew that she
had the male audience—which constituted the majority— firmly by their balls.
‘As a woman from India, I can tell you that a woman's intrinsicvalue depends entirely
on what she's compared with—men. The solutionto greater equality does not lie in
artificial legislation to propup women's salaries. It lies in changing the very basis of the
comparison. There are some jobs to which men are better suited than women—
let's pay the men more there. And conversely, there are severaljobs to which women
are better suited than men—let's pay these women more. But who should decide how
much either gets paid? Nota bunch of paperpushing bureaucrats in Westminster! That
would bethe equivalent of telling my honourable opponent to have a team often rowers
instead of eight!’ she said as she sat down to thunderousapplause and left Geoffrey
wondering whether he had been used orabused.
She smiled at him demurely. He seemed smitten.‘They've announced the elections,’
said Gangasagar triumphantly,‘they had no bloody option. The ruling party is split right
down the middle. The Uttar Pradesh home minister and Rajjo Bhaiya's disputehas
achieved what we could never have achieved ourselves!’
‘Our victory is certain,’ said Agrawalji, stuffing another spoonfulof the delectable malaimakkhan—saffronflavoured
cream lovinglywhipped from hung butter—into his eagerly
awaiting mouth. Thelight and fluffy soufflé vanished as it hit his tongue, teasing his
tastebuds.
‘The only certainty in life is death,’ said Gangasagar slipping backinto one of his
philosophical moods, ‘and I plan to be the death ofthis present regime.’
‘But you wanted Ikram out of the way,’ began Agrawalji leaningback contentedly as the
confection settled in his belly.
‘There's no one in this world who cannot be defeated or cheated,’
said Gangasagar taking another gulp. They were seated on the steps of Thaggu Ke
Laddoo—an eatery of Kanpur—famous for its desserts.

The owner's grand-father, Thaggu, had acquired his name by using sugar—an item to
be boycotted as per Mahatma Gandhi's directive—to produce his world-famous
sweets. He had been branded a thug, hence the name Thaggu. Aisa Koi sagaa
nahin,jisko humne thaga nahi—there's no one, not even a family member, who hasn't
beencheated by us—was the motto of the eatery, a line that epitomized the swagger of
Kanpur and its politics.
Gangasagar was merely a reflection of it.‘They've announced the elections,’ said
Chandini triumphantly, ‘they had no bloody option. The rift between Elizabeth and
Victor left no room for compromise in the presidential race.’
‘You are supposed to sit still for a portrait,’ complained Josephine.Her art teacher had
asked her to do an oil on-canvas as her next assignment. Josephine put down her
paintbrush, a welcome relief from the struggle to complete a portrait of someone who
could never sitstill. ‘Both candidates claimed foul play, right? The grapevine's been a
buzz with charges of electoral misconduct.’
Chandini nodded. ‘Victor Walsingham, our twentythree-year-oldsociology student at
Merton College, formally won the election inNovember for the summer term of the
Oxford Union. He defeated Elizabeth Lytton, a twenty-one-year-old politics and law
major atBalliol College, by 961 votes to 656,’ explained Chandini excitedly.
‘Victor, who had served as the Union's treasurer, was disqualifiedand forbidden from
contesting again by a university tribunal after Elizabeth complained that he'd organised
an eve-of-poll get-together for thirty-five people in a specially reserved room, in
violation of Union regulations that banned campaigning.’
‘So who won eventually?’ asked Josephine, wiping her brushes.
‘Neither. Victor's group accused Elizabeth, the Union's librarian,
of breaking with tradition by requesting a London barrister—fromher own father's firm,
Lytton, Tryon & Yarborough—to represent her. She was expecting that she would be
declared president by default,but the Union ordered a new election instead,’ said
Chandini.
‘Why don't you contest instead?’ asked Josephine.
‘I can't do that. Both Elizabeth and Victor are my friends,’ said Chandini.

‘That's the problem with friends in politics,’ said Josephine.
‘What's that?’
‘Friends come and go. Enemies accumulate.’
‘I've figured it out,’ declared Gangasagar.
‘What?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘Section eight, subsection three of the Representation of the people Act.’
‘What?’ asked Agrawalji again, even more confused.
‘It says that a person convicted of any criminal offence shall bedisqualified from the
date of such conviction and shall continue tobe disqualified for a further period of six
years.’
‘But Ikram has no convictions. Everyone—including you—knowsthat he's a don but
he's managed to steer clear of convictions. Hisfriend, the police commissioner,
ensures that.’
‘Ah! But what if the home minister of Uttar Pradesh were to be
enlightened on the devious scheme by which the police commissioner
ignited the fire of discord between him and Rajjo Bhaiya?’ askedGangasagar
mischievously.
‘It would be man overboard,’ said Agrawalji, ‘but such a situationwouldn't help the
ABNS either, Ganga. The party would lose its maincandidate—Ikram.’
‘You're right. That's why Ikram must understand that he can continue
to exercise power through a nominee who is not barred fromcontesting elections under
the law.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘Who better than a daughter?’ asked the naughty Gangasagar.
Agrawalji laughed.
‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab

Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Prithum
Bhagvati,
Namo
Namah;
Kundalini
Mata
Shakti;
Mata
Shakti,
NamoNamah,’ said Gangasagar.
‘He's decided not to contest,’ said Chandini deliriously to Josephine,
‘Victor's decided to throw his weight behind me instead.’
‘Why?’ asked Josephine, happy for her friend.
‘He thinks I'm a frail and nervous little girl from a poor third-world country. He'll be able
to control me and run the Union throughme.’
‘Poor sucker,’ chuckled Josephine, ‘he should ask Geoffrey.’
They were sitting at a table in the Eagle & Child, Oxford's favouritewatering hole where
the likes of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien had met to discuss literature, love and life.
A memorial plaque ona prominent wall bore signed photographs and autographs of
theirswith their inebriated affirmations that they had drunk to the landlord's
health.
The affair had blossomed instantly after her demure smile at theend of the debate.
Geoffrey had hesitantly asked her out, not surewhether it was acceptable for an Indian
woman to date. She hadbeen hoping that he would ask her and agreed instantly.
After several hours of uninterrupted conversation and a few bottles of wine, they both
fell quiet. She thought to herself, a man on a date wonders if he'll get lucky but the
woman already knows. Hurrying back to Geoffrey's bachelor pad, they had melted into

eachother's arms almost as though they had been created specifically forthis one
single moment. He kissed her and she kissed him back evenharder. It was almost as
though she wanted to consume him and, inturn, be consumed by him.
The next morning when she awoke, he was in the kitchen, brewing tea and frying
eggs. They ate breakfast in bed and then decidedthat some mistakes were simply too
delicious to make just once.
It was a Sunday morning and Chandini and Geoffrey were seated inthe Holywell Music
Room, the oldest purpose-built concert hall inEurope. Opened in 1748, the elegant hall
had hosted some of theworld's greatest musicians and composers, including Haydn
and Handel.
Sunday mornings saw Holywell playing host to the Oxford Coffee Concerts. The very
best musicians and ensembles from aroundthe world performed in the absolutely
stunning setting.
Chandini's taste in music had been influenced by the rhythms ofBollywood and she
had initially found Geoffrey's appetite for Bach,Beethoven and Mozart rather insipid.
But she soon fell in love withthe simple and unadulterated sounds of the organ and
violin.
The violinist was performing Vivaldi's Concerto in A Minor accompanied
by a string quartet and an organist. Geoffrey grazed her handlightly. The artiste then
went into a beautiful rendition of Bruch'sScottish Fantasy. Geoffrey took her hand in
his and held it tightly. Bythe time the performance had moved on to Beethoven's Violin
Concerto in D Major, his hand was on her thigh. They did not stay on for
Bach's Chaconne from Partita in D Minor.
The fan creaked as it completed one more strenuous revolution butthrew off no air.
The man seated under it threw off lots. He was seated on a dirty white plastic chair that
had seen better days. Infront of him stood a shaky table, covered with a sheet of
soiledyellow plastic. Another two even more squalid plasticchairs—supposedly for
visitors—sat opposite him.
Sub-inspector Brij Lal ran his police station like his personal fiefdom.

To the left of his durbar was the men's lockup, from which afoul stench emanated. To
the right was the women's lockup, darkand isolated. Towards the centre of his office
was a steel storage cabinet bursting with case files that had been partially eaten—and
digested— by rats. On his plastic-covered desk was an ancient rotaryphone that didn't
work and a bottle of whisky that did. Brij Lal tookanother gulp from his glass and
wondered how he should approachthe problem. Instructions had travelled from the
home minister of Uttar Pradesh to the director-general of police. The latter had relayed
themto the deputy inspector-general who, in turn, had briefed the seniorsuperintendent
of police. The chain of command had descended tothe additional superintendent who
had instructed the deputy superintendent who had ordered the circle officer who had
commanded the senior inspector who had directed subinspector Brij Lal—at thevery
end of the food chain—to do whatever was necessary to get the inmate to talk. The
inmate was a known associate of Ikrambhai—the mayor of Kanpur—and had run
Ikram's extortion racket for him.
During the reign of Ikram's buddy, the police commissioner, noone would have dared
to pick up any of Ikram's men, but now thingswere different. The Uttar Pradesh home
minister possessed definite information that the police commissioner had purposely
screwedaround and allowed the political conflagration between himself andRajjo
Bhaiya to flare up. The police commissioner had been unceremoniously
booted out. The home minister now wanted a convictionto screw Ikram, no matter how
many balls had to be crushed in the process.
Sub-inspector Brij Lal took another swig, stretched back in hischair and farted. The
food in the police canteen did not augur wellfor his system—the grub was full of germs.
That's why he needed liberal doses of whisky to kill the bacteria in his intestines. At
length,he got up, yelled at one of his constables to accompany him andsauntered over
to the solitary-confinement cell where Ikram's unfortunate henchman was being
hosted. The cell, a ten-by-ten roomwithout even a light bulb, had a worm-eaten blanket

thrown in onecorner, upon which sat the nervous and naked inmate. In one
cornerstood a wall, three feet in height, separating the cell from the latrine.
Its well-planned location inside an unventilated lockup provided theunmistakable stink
of piss.
Brij Lal held in his hand what he called his samaaj sudharak—the Hindi phrase for
‘social reformer’. His social reformer was a two-footlong rubber belt attached to a
wooden handle. He caught hold of hisprisoner's hair and hissed into his ears, ‘When
we carry out our social reform programme with this, there are no fractures, no blood,
nomajor peeling of the skin. Nothing will show up in your post mortem.
But the pain will be excruciating. You will appeal to God repeatedlybut He won't listen.
So, my friend, are you ready to be reformed?’
The confession was written up and signed within an hour. Gangasagar's
tip-off had done the trick—in addition to the samaaj sudharak.
‘Saar,’ began the young Keralite, his oily black hair slicked back carefully,
‘I am aa-nerd tomit you.’
‘You are aa-nerd tomit me?’ repeated Gangsagar, not too sure ofwhat the young, dark,
polite man had just said. He then realised thatthe south Indian was saying that he was
honoured to meet him.
‘I studied in ko-liage yin Kerala, now looking to yearn many in jobwith you.’
Gangasagar did a mental translation. I studied in a college in Keralaand am now
looking to earn money in a job with you.
‘Why did you leave Kerala?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘I zimbly jembed at the chance of baying here in Yindian pulleyticks.’
I simply jumped at the chance of being here in Indian politics,
translated Gangasagar to himself, as he smiled at the earnest young man.
‘What qualifications do you have?’
‘Yum Beey Yay.’
‘Ah! An MBA—good. I need someone who has management skills.’
‘I know, saar. You are very bissee man.’

‘Yes. I am busy but I still do manage fairly well on my own. I'll give you a shot—
something tells me that I won't be sorry. Thousandrupees salary okay?’
‘Will it attract yingum tax?’
‘Income tax? I don't think so. It would be below the minimum threshold,’ said
Gangasagar smiling at his new secretary.
‘Sir. I have this friend. He's a waiter. He's waiting to meet you.’
‘Why would I want to meet him, Menon?’ asked Gangasagar, ignoring the accent. After
several months, Gangasagar now found thathe was speaking almost like Menon
himself.
‘Sir. I think you should meet him. He can be very valuable.’
‘Why on earth would a waiter be of any value to me?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Sir. He wants to join you.’
‘I have no need for a butler. Tell him to find someone else.’
‘No, no, sir. He doesn't want a job. He wants to sell you something.’
‘What?’
‘Information.’
Gangasagar's ears perked up.
‘Can I bring him inside? He's been waiting for an hour,’ askedMenon.
‘Sure. Let's meet him,’ said Gangasagar.
A young man—a Muslim from Kerala—was ushered in by the enthusiastic
Menon. ‘Sir. This is Hameed. He's a waiter at the Golden Gate bar here in Kanpur. Go
on Hameed—tell sir your story,’ urged Menon.
The sub-judicial district magistrate yawned. It had been a long dayhearing bail
applications of inmates. He heard another defence lawyer argue a case that he knew
nothing about and shouted ‘Baildenied!’ mid-sentence. The startled lawyer looked at
him quizzicallywondering why he hadn't been given due hearing. He didn't realisethat
the magistrate had made up his mind well before the hearingever started.
The magistrate had a nasty little secret. He was married to a loving wife and had two
sons, but his wife had ceased to excite himanymore. He had tried ayurvedic remedies

to help his sagging libidobut nothing worked. He visited brothels thinking that a little
actionon the side would kickstart things. The girls had ended up laughing
at him. Fed up of his miserable existence, he sauntered into abar and ordered himself
a whisky-soda on ice. The waiter not onlybrought him his drink but also lots of peanuts
and crisps. He left the bar that night along with the waiter only to realise that his
brainwas wired differently. His machinery was still in working order butit needed
alternative current, not the straight kind. He was suddenlyhappy—and gay.
The waiter had soon realised that there was a profitable opportunity
awaiting exploitation—his days of waiting tables, washing dishesand pacifying
disgruntled customers at the Golden Gate bar seemedto be over. He was now the
secret lover of the sub-judicial magistrate.
The magistrate's nasty little secret wasn't that he was a closet homosexual.
The nasty little secret was that any case heard by themagistrate could be fixed for a
price. His agent was the efficientwaiter who had graduated from serving peanuts to
delivering sen-tences—Hameed.
It was definite. The telltale signs were all there. It was certain thatit was that time of the
month when she had come to expect pain inher lower abdomen, spasms in her uterus,
dizziness in her head, andbloating everywhere else. But the symptoms hadn't arrived.
She wasquite definitely pregnant.
Terrified of the consequences, Chandini ran to Geoffrey's collegeand waited for him
outside until his lecture ended. He saw the expression in her blue eyes and knew.
Panic was written all over herface. He held her hand as they strolled into Headington
Hill and allowed their feet to squelch the autumn leaves on the ground.
At length, she asked, ‘What shall we do, Geoffrey?’
The emphasis was on we.
‘I'm really not sure what you can do,’ was his reply.
The emphasis was on you.
‘Here's the five quid I owe you,’ said Victor to Geoffrey as he handedover the note.

‘Hemingfords never lose bets,’ said Geoffrey smugly, ‘but you oweme ten’.
‘Why?’
‘Five if I got the Paki into bed, another five if she got banged up,’said Geoffrey slyly.
‘So she's pregnant?’ asked Victor.
‘Let's just say that you can now safely claim the presidency of theOxford Union,’ said
Geoffrey, accepting the second note from Victor.
The telegram in front of Gangasagar told him more than he wantedto know. It was the
usual monthly report that came to him from agentleman in England—a Mr Harvey
Richardson. He conveyed regular updates regarding her grades, her progress, her
debates, herfriendships and her extra-curricular activities—and she'd had morethan
her fair share of those.
Mr Richardson was not an affluent man but a man who could getthings done on
occasion. He had originally been a business associateof Agrawalji and, during
Gangasagar's employment with Agrawalji,had helped Gangasagar import
manufactured goods from Englandand export commodities to England. He had been
delighted whenGangasagar had offered to sponsor his daughter, Josephine
Richardson, to Oxford. It was an incredibly generous gesture.
But generous gestures usually came with some strings attached. Inhis case—and
Josephine's—it was to look out for the Indian girl at StHilda's in Oxford.
The critical elements were the syringe and formula containing shavings
of carbolic soap. Her power douche would eventually result ina pregnant girl shedding
her uterine lining within forty-eight hours,after which everything would be bright and
sunny once again. Thehouse to which Josephine accompanied Chandini was a
modest low-income home in which the nameless resident, a middle-aged andmatronly
lady, would administer the douche to terrified girls. Shehad performed over a hundred
back-alley abortions and operatedone of the most hygienic illegal clinics from her
home.Josephine had ferretted out the lady's name from another girl.

Chandini, who was petrified that her father—Guptaji—would somehow
get wind of her condition, and brave all odds to reach the shoresof England to strangle
her for bringing shame and dishonour uponthe family, was relieved when Josephine
took all the planning out ofher hands and into her own.
The matron asked Chandini to undress and lie down on the
wooden table, putting her feet in the stirrups one at a time. She positioned
herself between Chandini's legs and asked the girl to openthem, but try as she would,
Chandini's knees refused to budge. Theyremained glued together almost as though a
voice within her wastelling her not to abort.
The Mother & Baby home at Grasmere was secluded enough to filterout unwanted
attention. Moreover, it was unlike the usual ones managed by nuns where ‘errant
unmarried mothers’ were sent to deliver illegitimate children who would subsequently
be put up for adoption. This was, on the contrary, a private home that charged
substantial fees from wealthy families who sent their pregnant daughters
to its care. Grasmere was the loveliest spot that man had everfound, according to
William Wordsworth, who had lived there forfourteen years of his life. Located in the
centre of the charming LakeDistrict, Grasmere was ethereal—surrounded by misty
hills, unending lakes, and undulating farmlands. Harvey Richardson had instructed
Josephine to take Chandini there without letting on that anyone— including
Gangasagar or Harvey himself—knew of her condition.
Josephine bought a gramophone that she installed in one cornerof Chandini's room.
She managed to source long-playing records ofChandini's favourite music—violin
concertos by Bach, Beethoven,Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Paganini. Chandini would sit
by the windowgazing out at the serene Grasmere surrounded by gentle walksand
craggy peaks. Josephine would often go to the market whileChandini meditated to the
sounds of the violin. Sometimes, when Josephine returned, she would notice that
Chandini's eyes weremoist and her face stained with dried tears. Sounds of the violin
reminded her too much of Geoffrey. Josephine tried to cheer her upby placing a vase

of fresh pink chrysanthemums on the windowsillevery few days—they were Chandini's
favourite flowers.
Eight weeks after moving in, Chandini was ready to deliver. Shehad not realised that it
would be the equivalent of pushing a bowling ball through a nostril. Josephine held her
hand while the matronchecked her cervix for dilation. Blood and amniotic fluid were
seeping out as the nurse urged her to push. Chandini pushed and blackedout as she
felt a body covered in slippery gob gush out of her.
When Chandini awoke, she realised that she had been cleaned upand wheeled back
into her room with the flower-patterned curtainsthat framed a picture postcard view of
the lake. Josephine was sitting by her side, gently running her fingers through
Chandini's hair. Chandini took one look at Josephine and she knew instantly.
‘I'm so sorry, honey,’ Josephine whispered, ‘the doctor says youcan have others but
this one was stillborn.’
Another telegram a few days later informed Gangasagar in Kanpurthat the needful had
been done. Gangasagar did not inform eitherof the fathers—Guptaji or Ikram. The
telegram also informed himthat the two girls had rented a cottage in the Lake District
and werespending a few more weeks in the country before Chandini returnedhome.
‘One down, one more to go,’ thought Gangasagar as he dropped into meet Agrawalji
for an evening walk along the riverbank.
The Air-India Boeing 707-420 on the bus-stop route of LondonCairo-Geneva-Mumbai
had a hundred and sixty passengers on board.Chandini was airsick as they landed
turbulently in Geneva in themiddle of a thunderstorm. By the time they reached
Mumbai airport,she was relived to be back home.
She could never forgive Geoffrey for the games he had playedwith her life. She could
try to forget—but she would never forgive.Neither would Gangasagar.London's hip
Esmeralda's Barn was located in Wilton Place, a fashionable street running off

Knightsbridge. One of the first clubs toopen after the new Gaming Act, it had the best
croupiers, waiters,
hostesses and chefs in town. A narrow and dimly-lit passage led tothe large office that
accommodated two giant antique desks, each illuminated by a green lawyers’ lamp.
The two men that sat behind thedesks smoking Cubans had been separated by just
ten minutes. Tedhad been born ten minutes before Fred. The twins had gone on
tocreate and ruthlessly manage England's largest crime syndicate—thePayne
Brothers.
Born in Hoxton, East London, to Jack Payne, a scrap gold dealer,
the twins had exhibited none of their future ruthless tendencies at
school. Their grandfather had led them into the world of amateurboxing, and the
brothers never lost a single bout. The problem wasthat they were more interested in
throwing punches outside the ringthan inside it. They soon bought a run-down local
snooker club inBethnal Green, where they started several rackets—protection,
hijacking,
armed robbery, arson, betting, and prostitution. Their mosthigh-profile acquisition had
been Esmeralda's Barn.
Harvey Richardson headed over to the roulette wheel. The croupier
was stacking chips while customers were placing their colouredchips on the playing
field. The croupier expertly flicked the smallwhite roulette ball between his thumb and
index finger towards therim and the ball went into frenzied orbit. Harvey placed a
fiveron black. As the ball lost momentum and slowed down, it wobbled
and fell gently into the still revolving wheel. ‘Double zero,’ said thecroupier, ‘no
winners.’
‘Fuck!’ said Harvey as he got up. The bouncer was nodding at him.
The brothers were ready to see him. He was nervous but tried notshowing it. It was
rumoured that the brothers had once fed a druggedman to pigs on a farm. When either
Ted or Fred entered Harrods,

the queues at the tills would instantly part, like the Red Sea beforeMoses, to let them
through. In return, the brothers would ‘look after’the community. The previous year
they had even spent thousands ona Guy Fawkes fireworks extravaganza for London.
Harvey knew them because of the help they had extended to himwhen his house had
been burgled. Josephine had been in Oxford, atSt Hilda's, when the break-in occurred.
They reported it to the police but nothing happened. Then a well-dressed man
representing thebrothers had come around to see the Richardsons. He had listened
to their tale and said that he was sorry to hear about the theft andthat he would do
everything he could to ferret out those responsible.Within a week, Harvey's wife had all
her jewellery back and almosteverything else that had been taken.
What Gangasagar wanted done could not be handled by anyoneelse. It had to be the
Payne Brothers—social workers in the realsense. Gangasagar requested Harvey to
finalise the terms of engagement, including the final price.
he OUBC—the Oxford University Boat Club—was waking up to anearly start as usual.
The OUBC owned a boathouse on the Thamesand the first few boats had already left
by six in the morning.An hour later the serenity and predictable routine of the club
wasshattered as the junior team's boat collided with the floating corpseof a naked man.
The club boat had bumped into the body at seventhat morning, just past the green spit
post near the jetty. The policewere immediately summoned. The body was of a white
male agedbetween twenty and twenty-five, extremely fit. His face had beenbeaten to a
pulp, hence facial recognition was not possible.
Thirty minutes later the seven policemen and the coroner werejoined by a police boat
to search for the unidentified man's clothesand belongings along the stretch of the
riverbank. A few hours laterthey located the bloody sleeveless dark blue vest of an
Oxford Eight.Near it was the distinctive blue-bladed oar of the OUBC covered in
bloody gore. It had been used to smash the victim's face into mush.The dark blue vest
located on the riverbank had an identifying labelstitched on at the back. It bore the
name ‘Geoffrey’.

CHAPTER SEVEN
About 2300 years ago
Draped in a dark blanket and wearing a blue turban, the mancould have been
mistaken for any of the thousands of citizenrywalking on the streets of Takshila. His
gold amulets would have conveyed the air of a merchant, but his twirled moustache
and long hairgave him the appearance of a warrior. It was late evening. By his
calculation it was ten muhurtas into the night, day and night each beingfifteen
muhurtas long. He walked purposefully but not briskly. He didnot wish to attract
attention to himself at this late hour. Within his vision lay her house—Jalakrida. The
name was derived from jala—or water, and krida—or pleasure. This house was a
pleasure palace witha swimming pool reserved for wealthy and influential men. It
wasowned by one of the most famous ganikas—courtesans—in all of Takshila.
Her name was Mainika.
The blanket-draped stranger reached Jalakrida and after ascertaining
that there was no one watching, went up to the door andknocked—one, one-two, onetwo,
one—a pattern recognised by thelady of the establishment. The door half-opened
and she led him directly into her bedchamber. Once in, she locked the door from
inside.But this was certainly not a nocturnal rendezvous to explore thepleasures of
Mainika's secret garden. The man remained standing andwhispered, ‘I have news.’
‘How much more stress do I need to take?’ she caustically asked.
‘Bear with me for just a couple of days. The army of Gandhar, disguised
as cattle herders, keeps attacking Kaikey's border farms. Theyloot cattle and grain and
we do nothing. Well, we have finally decidedto do something!’
‘But when? And what is it that you want me to do?’ asked Mainika.

‘In this winter month of Magha, during the third day of Bakula—
the waning fortnight of the moon—the forces of Kaikey shallattack Gandhar. You must
make sure that the commander-in-chief of Gandhar is with you on that day.’
‘He's utterly captivated by the pleasures that I provide. He's hereevery night to bathe in
the warm waters. But how do I keep him herefor the entire duration of the attack? My
skills lie in teasing a manto the very highest peak of bliss, but I can't keep him here
with meafter the moment of ecstasy has passed!’ she argued.
‘It's absolutely essential that the commander-in-chief must not bein a position to direct
Gandhar forces when we attack—we need toelicit shock and awe. Do whatever is
necessary. If you have cannabisincense, use it!’ he snapped.
‘But—uh… why are we doing this? Can't the politicians talk to oneanother and resolve
the dispute amicably?’ asked Mainika.
‘Gandharraj, the aged king of Gandhar, wants to have good neighbourly
relations with Paurus, our lord and master of Kaikey, butGandharraj's brash and
headstrong prince—Ambhi—is intent on destroying his neighbour even if it means
getting into bed with theMacedonians! In these circumstances, attack is the best form
of defence,’ argued the Kaikey intelligence operative.
‘But Ambhi is studying in Takshila University. How can he possibly
influence state policy?’ asked the bewildered courtesan.
‘He has been expelled from the university owing to his misbehaviour.The university
authorities hushed up the matter and Gandharraj has requested that the prince's
tutoring continue at the palace itself.The arrogant and foolish youth now wants to
depose his ownfather and take control of Gandhar with the help of Alexander's
bastards—’‘Sshh,’ she hissed, ‘this may be the house of a ganika, but we donot use
foul language within the precincts of my sacred love nest!’
‘A thousand apologies, dear Mainika. I forgot that in our ancientscriptures, Mainika was
the most beautiful of the celestial apsaras,

sent by Lord Indra to break the severe penance undertaken by SageVishwamitra,’ he
joked.
‘Don't forget that Vishwamitra's penance was indeed broken andhis lust awakened
when he saw Mainika swimming in a lake nearhis hermitage, which is precisely what
you want me to do with thecommander-in-chief!’ she retorted.
‘The only difference being that you have your own lake!’ hequipped as he slipped away
into the wintry darkness of Takshila's streets.
Chanakya introduced his newest protégé to his students, Sinharan,Mehir and
Sharangrao. ‘This is Chandragupta. He's the son of Senapati Maurya and I have
brought him with me so that he may betutored in the subjects of kingship—combat,
warfare, politics, economics, languages, mathematics and the sciences. Sinharan, I
needyou to be his best friend.’
‘It shall be done, acharya,’ said Sinharan as he put his arm aroundthe young
Chandragupta. ‘In the past few years, the acharya has beentraining me in the very
same subjects, Chandragupta. My father isthe governor of Mallayrajya and we too face
the Macedonian threat. With my help, you will absorb what the acharya has to teach
you attwice the pace,’ he bantered, trying to make the new boy, who wasquite
obviously missing his parents, feel at home. Sinharan continued. ‘This is my friend
Mehir. He's from Persia. I've been learning Persian—cusswords mostly—from him!
WhenAmbhi, the crown prince of Gandhar, was a student here, he was always
curious about what we were saying about him, little realisingthat a string of the
choicest Persian expletives was being let loose! And this is Sharangrao—be careful
about what you say in his presence. He has the memory of an elephant!’
The trip from Magadha, at the eastern tip of Bharat, to Gandhar,
along its northwest frontiers, had been tiring but efficiently completed.
They had managed the journey in about six months. Unlike

on his previous journey, this time Chanakya had the advantage offresh horses and an
entourage of attendants. Some of the treasurehad been left with Senapati Maurya to
raise an army that wouldeventually help overthrow Dhanananda and keep external
aggressionat bay. ‘The senapati will not double-cross me,’ thought the gametheoryinspired
Brahmin. ‘After all, I have his son with me, and thatson is the future king of
Magadha and, possibly, the emperor of aunited Bharat.’
Chanakya and Chandragupta had brought back with them a significant
amount of gold. This would be used to raise a student forcethat could assist in
repelling the Macedonians at the doorstep ofGandhar. During the long and arduous
journey they had been underconstant threat from gangs of thugs and thieves. Had it
not been forthe presence of a large contingent of specially trained men sent alongby
Senapati Maurya, they would never have been able to return toTakshila safely and
with treasure chest intact.
‘Let's understand the dynamics at play here. Gandhar is a powerfulkingdom,
but the king is old and weak. His son, Ambhi, is impatientand ambitious. Time will
prove me right but I'm sure that he'll sleepwith the enemy—Alexander—to usurp the
throne. Attacking Gandhar at this moment would be foolish because you'll precipitate
matters and push him into the arms of the Macedonians,’ cautionedChanakya to his
friend Indradutt, the prime minister of Kaikey.
They were seated on a thick jute rug by the banks of the Indus.Indradutt's wife had
provided them with fruits, yoghurt and a fewsavouries for their little picnic. Their horses
were tethered to a treeclose by. Meetings between Indradutt and Chanakya
necessarily hadto remain secret lest Ambhi accuse Chanakya of conspiring with the
enemy.
Indradutt knew that what Chanakya was saying made sense. Therewas no point in
weakening the hinges of a gate when the enemy wasstanding just outside. But he also
knew that his own king, Paurus,was an old-world honour-guts-and-glory kind of guy.
He saw himselfas a knight in shining armour who would teach the rascal Ambhi
alesson that he would never forget.

‘I agree with you, Vishnu’—he was one of the few people who stillhad the liberty of
calling him by his birth name, Vishnugupta—‘butAmbhi has provoked the situation
through perpetual border skirmishes.Sending military men dressed as cattle herders
and lootinglivestock has made the whole of Kaikey very angry. Maharaj Paurushas
been pushed into a corner. If he doesn't act against Gandhar,he fears that his own
people may call him a coward,’ explainedIndradutt, biting into an apple
absentmindedly.
‘Very often, one does not need to act, but simply give the impression
that one is acting. Let Paurus make a speech against Gandhar.
Let him cut off diplomatic ties with Takshila. Let him send astrongly-worded note of
caution. In short, let him act as though he'sacting without really acting!’ said Chanakya,
tossing a pebble intothe mighty river.
Indradutt sighed. He knew that the clever fox was, as usual, onthe mark. It would be
better to let Gandhar keep the Macedoniansout rather than pushing Ambhi into their
arms. Gandhar would, quite unnecessarily, become the fortress from the safety of
whichthe Macedonian soldiers would fight Kaikey. ‘I shall speak to Paurusabout the
implications, Vishnu, but don't hold your breath. I knowmy king better than he knows
himself!’
God was pleased. In this particular instance, God was Macedonian,and his name was
Alexander. He didn't look divine though. For onething, he was a little too short to be
God. His long, blond hair reaching down to his neck, his perfectly straight nose,
prominent forehead, and noble protruding chin, however, more than compensatedfor
his short stature. The celestial deity had raised a terrifying duststorm as his army ran
over Syria, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia andBactria. His mother, Olympias, on the
night before the consummation of her marriage to King Philip of Macedonia, had
dreamed thather womb had been struck by a thunderbolt. And the product of

thatmystical union between Olympias and Philip had produced a sonwho was no less
than a thunderbolt.
The thunderbolt then had his cousin executed, two Macedonian
princes murdered, his general poisoned, and his stepmother and herdaughter burned
alive in order to ensure his accession to the throne.
The thunderbolt had then taken forty-two thousand men on a longtrek to defeat the noless-magnificent
Darius III of Persia who hadbeen forced to offer his own daughter as
war repatriation to Alexander before the omnipotent godling marched into Persepolis
anddeclared himself shahenshah—the king of kings—having crucified allcaptured men
of military age and having sold their women and children into slavery.
The king of kings was copulating with his latest wife, Roxana, astunning Uzbek
princess, a change in diet from his usual menu ofyoung men, when the thought of
invading Bharat crossed his mind.He decided that Ambhi was the key.
The thousands of horsemen galloping through the dusty fields wasan awe-inspiring
sight. The chaturangbala—the four-limbed armyof Kaikey—was formidable, but this
one-limbed monster was evenmore terrifying. In usual military combat, the four limbs of
the armyconsisted of the infantry, cavalry, elephants and chariots. However,
to capitalise on the elements of speed and surprise, Kaikey had decided
to use only cavalry to pulverize Gandhar into submission.
Inside the Jalakrida of Mainika, lay a comatose commander-in chief.He had been
delicately bathed, erotically massaged, and tenderly fed by the seductive Mainika. As
he fell into a gentle and peaceful slumber, she lit the cannabis incense near the bed in
her boudoir and left the room briskly, locking the door behind her. He would beout like
an oil-starved lamp for several hours.
The alarm had been sounded and Takshila's gate pulleys were being overworked to
shut the monster barriers, but it was too late. Kaikey horsemen poured into Takshila,
surrounded the local garrison,

ode up to Gandharraj's palace and blocked ingress and egress.
Gandhar's royal family sat in their gilded cage, prisoners of Kaikey'scavalry. Gandhar's
commander-in-chief lay unconscious in the bedchamber of Gandhar's most expensive
whore, as the citadel of Takshila capitulated to the sudden influx of hordes of ferocious
riders.
Inside the palace, the old king Gandharraj received a message. The prime minister of
King Paurus, Indradutt, wished to pay his respects whenever Gandharraj was willing to
spare his time. Spare histime! The bastard was being sarcastic. He had absolutely
nothing todo with his time—his palace was under siege!
‘Bring the prime minister to the council hall. I shall meet himthere shortly,’ said the
weak and exhausted emperor to the messenger as he was helped to his feet by his
attendants.
O my imprudent son Ambhi,I had always warned you about your foolish incursions
intoKaikey.The result is plain to see,thought the monarch as he allowedhis servants to
cover him with his silk stole and adorn him with his thirty-three-carat diamond-studded
amulets in preparation for themeeting with the emissary of Paurus.
Indradutt bowed down low before Gandharraj and began, ‘O MightyEmperor, Lord and
Master of the valley of Gandhar, Benefactor of Takshila, O Benevolent Father of the
citizens of Gandhar, O Wise,Learned, Brave—’
Gandharraj interrupted him mid-sentence. ‘It is kind of you to accord me this courtesy,
Indradutt, but the truth is that you're the victor, and I the vanquished,’ said the
greybeard motioning for his subjugator to sit down. Indradutt did not instal himself on
the chairoffered to him. Instead, as a gesture of respect towards the aged monarch,
he sat down cross-legged on the floor next to his feet.
‘Why are you being so respectful to me?’ asked Gandharraj, ‘I amyour prisoner and
have been defeated in one fatal swoop.’

‘Gandharraj, the kingdom of Kaikey has always held you in highregard. Our king,
Paurus, has always spoken about you with affection and respect. He knows that you're
wise, just and honest. The decision to attack your kingdom was a very difficult one, but
we wereleft with little alternative. Your son, Ambhi, has been sending disguised
militia and mercenaries to Kaikey to stir up trouble along theborder areas. We tried our
best to ignore minor skirmishes, but theunprovoked aggression remained
undiminished,’ explained Indraduttto the tired and venerable sovereign.
‘I understand your predicament, Indradutt. I am willing to doeverything that is within the
realm of my earthly powers to rein inAmbhi, but he's foolhardy and reckless. Ask
Paurus to forgive him,for me,’ pleaded Gandharraj.
Indradutt hesitated before he spoke. ‘O sagacious King, please donot embarrass me.
I'm your humble servant and my own master,Paurus, has been clear that his difficulties
do not lie with you butwith Ambhi. He's also worried that your son has been secretly
negotiating a treaty with Alexander. If Gandhar allows Alexander passageto Bharat,
then all our kingdoms shall be at risk,’ he said.
‘That's impossible! Even Ambhi knows that he does not have theauthority to enter into
an accord with anyone without my seal of approval,’ asserted Gandharraj, more
hopeful than convinced.
‘How do I convince you of Ambhi's actions, maharaj?’ wonderedIndradutt. Without
waiting for an answer to the rhetorical questionhe shouted ‘Abhaya! Please come
within.’
Within moments the intelligence operative who had been havinglate night consultations
with Mainika at her pleasure pool walkedin. He folded his hands in a gesture of
greeting to both men butremained silent as he stood awaiting further instructions from
Indradutt.
‘Abhaya, have your men been following Crown Prince Ambhi?’
asked Indradutt, almost in courtroom fashion.
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Abhaya.

‘And has the prince remained under your observation for all fifteen
muhurtas of the day and all fifteen muhurtas of the night?’
‘Yes, my lord. He has never been out of our sight.’
‘Has the prince remained in Takshila for every single day of thelast shuklapaksha?’
‘No, my lord. He went hunting and crossed over into Kamboja onthe second day of
shuklapaksha.’
‘When the prince crossed into Kamboja, did he camp there?’
‘Yes, my lord. He remained in his Kamboja camp for three days and three nights.’
‘Did any special guests drop in to meet the prince?’
‘Only one, my lord. Seleucus dropped in and spent a few hours with him.’
‘Seleucus, the trusted general of Alexander?’
‘Yes, my lord. The Macedonian insignia on the horses seemed to indicate as much.’
‘And did your agent hear what was discussed?’
‘No. But Seleucus’ secretary did step out of the meeting tent to arrange
for hot wax and the general's signet ring.’
‘So it would seem that this was certainly not a friendly hunting expedition,
unless it's now fashionable to brand one's hunting trophieswith wax seals,’ commented
Indradutt caustically as he observedGandharraj's worried expression. ‘Thank you,
Abhaya, you mayleave,’ said Indradutt.
‘Alas! What has my foolish son done? How shall I repair the damage,
Indradutt?’ asked Gandharraj as Abhaya left.
Indradutt had no words to offer. He knew that Chanakya had beenright. Paurus had
achieved absolutely nothing by attacking Gandharexcept for propelling Ambhi into
Alexander's arms.
The figure was clad in loose black pyjamas and a black cotton vest.
A black mask was tied around the lower half of his face, leaving onlyhis head and eyes
uncovered. A long jute rope was wound aroundhis waist. His face and hands were
coated in soot so that any exposed flesh would blend in with the dark night. To one
side of hiswaist hung a small dagger and on the other side a well-polished bamboo

tube resembling a flute. He was barefoot and his feet made nosound as he gently trod
the cool and well-worn stone slabs along thepalace corridor. Some minutes later, he
stopped by a window, unwound the rope, tied it firmly to one of the pillars nearby, and
threwthe remaining cord outside. He grasped the rope firmly and beganlowering
himself to the window ledge that was a floor below. Having
reached it, he swung inside, landed inside the unending passage,
balanced himself and looked in the distance at the ornate door that
led to the royal bedchamber.
Two guards stood outside holding lances that crossed one anotheracross the doorway.
A row of pillars ran along the length of the hallway,
which led to the door of the chamber and the guards outside it.
The black figure skipped lightly towards his goal using the massivecolumns to hide
himself from the vision of the guards. He measuredhis final steps carefully to satisfy
himself that he was within shootingdistance and knelt down behind one of the pillars.
He unclasped theflute-like tube from his waist and sucked in a long deep breath.
Bringing the tube to his lips he aimed the flute at the more alertof the two sentinels and
blew hard into the pipe. An exceedinglysmall dart, coated with the juice of aconite
tubers and snake venom,
hurtled through the dark alley until it punctured a microscopic holein the sentry's neck.
It was no more than a mosquito sting but produced
a devastating effect. Before he could collapse to the floor andalert his companion,
another little peasized spur left the peashooter'saperture and caught the second guard
between his eyes. Both mencollapsed in a matter of seconds, the sound of their spears
falling tothe floor reverberating eerily in the sombre corridor.
He leapt up, jogged over to the two dead bodyguards and droppeddown on his knees
to efficiently check their carotid arteries. Having satisfied himself that they were well
and truly dead, he unclasped hisdagger and cautiously opened the door. The room

was silent exceptfor arrhythmic snores emerging from the silhouette that lay on
thegiant bed towards the eastern end. The room was dim, the only lightbeing that of a
single oil lamp near the entrance door.
The assassin advanced towards the snoring individual until hereached the bed. He
looked down at his father's face, raised his knife
and with one fatal blow, plunged it into Gandharraj's chest. Arterial
blood squirted in arcs as the old king's left ventricle contracted,
leaving the bed drenched in wine-coloured gore. The sovereign's eyesopened for a
fraction of a second as the image of his murdering heirwas captured on his retinas. His
terrorstruck expression soon gaveway to a look of relief as he realised that his
humiliating life was finally over.
‘I had warned you, Indradutt,’ said Chanakya as he watched
Chandragupta wrestle Sinharan inside the mud akhada—the wrestling
arena on the Takshila campus. Both wrestlers were wearingmuddy loincloths and were
slick from a mixture of sesame oil andsweat. Their methodology was a freestyle of all
four types of wrestling prevailing in Bharat, Hanumanti, Jambuvanti, Jarasandhi
and Bhimaseni.But this was no mild wrestling match. Just as one contestantwould
succeed in holding down his adversary, a team of monstrouslooking
men wielding batons would attack him. This would give hisopponent a chance
to recover while his rival fought off the attackinghorde.
Indradutt winced at the remark. ‘I know, I know. You have the luxury of saying “I told
you so” but Paurus gave me no alternative. I withdrew Kaikey's troops from Gandhar
upon Gandharraj's assurance that he would rein in his son. How was one to know that
the wretch Ambhi would decide to murder his own father! We've created
a mess. Now Ambhi is free to pursue his treaty with Alexander. They
say he looks like a god!’ he complained as he looked at Chandragupta
pinning down Sinharan in a submission hold. Over the years, Chandragupta had grown
into a fine specimen ofmasculinity. Broad shoulders, muscular arms and wrestler's
thighscontrasted with his gentle face, aristocratic nose and thick, curly,

dark hair that fell in cascading waves to his shoulders. His fitness instructors
had trained him in wrestling, archery, horseback riding andswordsmanship.
His daily regimen was more difficult than that of the most punishing
and austere monkhood. In a day and night of thirty muhurtas, thefirst two muhurtas
after sunrise were used for exercise, physical andcombat training. The next two
muhurtas were for mastering kinglysubjects—economics, politics, history and
geography. The ensuingtwo muhurtas were allocated for his personal time—bathing
andearly lunch. The two muhurtas following noon were used for studying
other subjects—mathematics, general science and languages. Thesucceeding two
muhurtas were designated for equestrian activitiesincluding horse-mounted combat.
The two muhurtas before sunsetwere reserved for spiritual discourse and learning the
ancient scriptures
followed by a two-muhurta break for bathing and dinner. Thetwo muhurtas after
dinnertime were for homework and revision of everything learned during the day. The
final two muhurtas wereused for meditation and contemplation before he took his forty
winksand the cycle started all over again at dawn.
‘I am not worried, Indradutt. And if I were you, the best strategywould be to do
absolutely nothing,’ said Chanakya looking over atother wrestlers wearing garnals—
circular stone neck weights—and practising their squats.
‘I don't understand you, Vishnu. You lecture us on the perils facingour nation from the
Macedonian war machine and when they succeed in getting their foot into the door you
preach masterly inactivity!’ burst out Indradutt, ignoring the three wrestlers who were
performing dhakulis—twisting rotations—with maces in hand.
‘Mehir! Come over here. Please explain to Indraduttji why I am soconfident,’ called out
Chanakya, motioning his Persian student over.
Mehir, also dripping with sweat, dropped his weights and walkedover to them. He
folded his hands in a gesture of greeting to both men.

‘Tell the prime minister of Kaikey why I recommend that he donothing,’ said Chanakya.
‘Upon the advice of the acharya, I have cultivated a network ofPersian merchants who
keep me informed regarding the developments in Persepolis. I had left the great city
just after it had fallento the Macedonians and it seems that a few months later there
was a great drunken orgy hosted by Alexander at the palace, which set offa massive
fire. Most of Persepolis including its wondrous treasureswas destroyed. The thrust
provided to Alexander's war efforts by Per-sia's wealth has been neutralised,’
explained Mehir.
‘What it means, Indradutt, is that Alexander's progress will beslow. Most of his troops
are mercenaries. If they are not paid, theywill not fight. It will be difficult for Alexander
to defeat the mightyarmy of Kaikey in his diminished capacity,’ said Chanakya,
takingsome sesame oil from a large earthen pot next to them and rubbingit into his dry
elbows absentmindedly.
‘So what should I tell my king?’ asked Indradutt.
‘Tell him that he should sleep peacefully,’ said the ingenious Brahmin.
‘The burning down of Persepolis has not blunted the edge of Alexander's
sword, yet you asked me to lie to the prime minister of Kaikey.
Why, acharya?’ asked Mehir as Indradutt left.
‘Mehir, I need you to think very carefully before answering thequestions that I am about
to ask you. Which is the strongest kingdomin Bharat?’
‘Magadha, without doubt.’ ‘And who rules Magadha?’
‘Dhanananda.’
‘To wrest Magadha from Dhanananda, we shall need the help ofthe next most powerful
kingdom. Which do you think that is?’
‘Kaikey.’
‘And who rules Kaikey?’
‘Paurus.’

‘But why will Paurus help us acquire Magadha if he doesn't feelthe need to? Under
what circumstances would he feel obliged tothrow in his lot with us?’
‘If he were under attack.’
‘And who is his sworn enemy?’
‘Ambhi, the king of Gandhar.’
‘And is Ambhi capable of taking on Paurus alone?’
‘Obviously not. His own capital was captured by Kaikey effortlessly!’
‘So how does one make Ambhi strong enough to attack Kaikey?’
‘Alexander!’
‘Precisely.’
‘But acharya, you said that the Macedonians are poison and thatwe need to ensure
that this poison does not spread.’
‘We often use poisons in small quantities to treat ailments, don'twe? If the dosage is
correctly calibrated, the very toxin that can killbecomes a saviour. We need to use the
Macedonians in precisely thesame way.’
‘If Alexander is friends with Ambhi and they jointly attack Paurus,
there exists the possibility that Alexander may become emperor ofall of Bharat!’
‘Once again, Mehir, I urge you to think this through very carefullybefore replying.
Before planning a campaign in Bharat, which countries did Alexander conquer?’
‘Persia, Syria, Egypt, Assyria, Babylonia—’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But how many Alexanders are there? One? Two?
Ten?’
‘Only one,’ said Mehir smiling.
‘Only one Alexander and tens of conquered territories. He willfight and move on. He
cannot be in ten places at once!’
‘But his generals may remain. He may appoint governors.’
‘What was the size of Alexander's army when he left on his military conquest?’
‘My sources say that he had around forty-two thousand troopswhen he left Macedonia.’
‘And have your sources told you how many men he currently has?’
‘Around the same.’

‘Strange. If he had left some of his own troops in Persia, Syria,
Egypt, Assyria, Babylonia, Bactria, and other conquered territories,
his present troop numbers should have been lower. What does thistell you?’
‘That he isn't leaving behind large contingents to maintain controlover conquered
territories?’
‘And that he depends on local allies to protect his conquered interests.’
‘So we should sit back and allow Paurus to be defeated by thecombined forces of
Ambhi and Alexander, acharya? I would muchrather die for my country.’
‘It's foolish men who die for their country. The intelligent onesmake others die for their
country instead. Remember, he who plansand runs away, lives to fight another day.
That's not cowardice,
it's chess—and the board belongs to me! Alexander's campaign willleave Paurus as
well as Ambhi weak. Having weakened them he willappoint one of his generals—
probably Seleucus—as his governor andmove on. That shall be our moment.
Chandragupta's moment! Bharat's moment!’
‘And we do nothing to prevent Paurus from losing?’
‘Battles are won or lost before they are ever fought. Paurus hasalready lost.’
‘And what do we do till then?’ asked Mehir, looking at his mentorintently.
‘We build our forces and wait—patiently.’
‘And Indradutt?’
‘I have already burnt that bridge by lying to him today.’

CHAPTER EIGHT
Present Day
The bailiff was elocuting. ‘The sub-judicial district magistrate'scourt of Kanpur is now in
session. The honourable judge S. C. Pande presiding. Order and silence is
commanded. God protect thishonourable court!’
The honourable sub-judicial district magistrate S. C. Pande lookedat the lawyer who
stood before him. ‘Where's your client?’ he asked.
The lawyer looked around as though he expected to find his client under
the desks of the courtroom. The magistrate sighed. He didn't wantto be here in court.
He would have preferred to be in the hotel roomon the outskirts of the city experiencing
the pleasures of Hameed'ssublime body. A faint smile crossed his lips as he thought of
him.
‘Sir, I don't know. He had said that he would be here ten minutes
before the appointed hour,’ explained the harried lawyer, breakingMr Pande's carnal
reverie. ‘In that case, I'm issuing orders for his arrest.
Bailiff, please issue an arrest warrant and see to it that Mr IkramShaikh is produced
before me at the earliest.’
‘The lowly bastard had the balls to issue an arrest warrant for me,’
said Ikram angrily.
‘Ikram—Ikram—calm down! What happened?’ asked Gangasagar,
feigning complete ignorance of the situation.
‘As you know, the police commissioner was booted out by the statehome minister.
With his departure, I was no longer a VIP. They started
investigating me and my businesses, even though I'm the mayor ofthis goddamn town!’
‘But what's the problem with that? You've dealt with enough investigations,
I imagine. All investigators have their price,’ suggestedGangasagar.

‘But this time it's different. They beat up Ahmed—my extortionracket-fixer—and got
him to admit a pack of lies against me!’sputtered Ikrambhai, visibly shaken.
‘Even then—when the matter comes before the magistrate, I'msure that matters can be
handled, right?’ asked Gangasagar shrewdly.
‘I've tried everything with this sonofabitch. He just won't budge.
There's nothing that I haven't offered the asshole but he refuses to letme off. I can't
even get him kicked in the face because all my menare being watched by a hostile
police force!’ complained Ikram, bemoaning the injustice of it all.
‘You know, Ikram, you're my closest friend. And as your friend,
I advise that you must maintain a low profile. As mayor—and chiefministerial
aspirant—everyone has it in for you,’ recommended Gangasagar
quietly, omitting to mention himself in the list of ‘everyone’.
‘But state elections are around the corner,’ said Ikram. ‘Who will
represent the party if not myself? We have worked so hard to makethe ABNS relevant.
It isn't about my personal glory—heaven forbid—it's about a sense of duty towards you
and the ABNS,’ pleaded Ikram.
‘I shall hate losing you, Ikram,’ said Gangasagar, ‘but I value ourfriendship too much to
risk losing you entirely. I think you shoulddrop out of the chief ministerial race and put
your weight behindsomeone else.’
‘What's your suggestion?’ asked Ikram.
‘I know someone who can get the magistrate to do what we wanthim to. But you'll have
to lie low so that the government machinerystops working against you. Chandini's
returned. Why not anoint heryour political successor? She's just a poor helpless girl—
she'll still bein your control,’ counselled Gangasagar.
‘He's decided not to contest,’ said Gangasagar to Agrawalji. ‘Ikram'sdecided to throw
his weight behind his adopted daughter instead.’
‘What convinced him?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘When you're holding a man by the balls, his heart and mind willfollow,’ said
Gangasagar, laughing as he silently thanked his secretary,
Menon, for bringing him Hameed.

‘Chandini, I would like you to meet some extremely good students.
This is Upendra Kashyap from Lucknow University; this is BrijmohanRai from
Allahabad University; Iqbal Azmi from Aligarh MuslimUniversity; Girish Bajpai from
Banaras Hindu University—’
Chandini looked at the thirty men from various universities
around the state of Uttar Pradesh. They didn't look like students.
Most of them seemed to be in their thirties and forties. The first one,
Upendra Kashyap from Lucknow University, stepped up and greetedChandini, his
palms pressed together in front of him in a gesture ofrespect. ‘I know what you're
thinking, Chandiniji. We seem too old tobe students! But under the tutelage of Pandit
Gangasagarji we haveall devoted our entire lives to earning degrees.’
‘So which field are you studying?’ asked Chandini curiously.
‘Oh, I joined the university fifteen years ago. I first obtained a BAin philosophy and then
decided to complete a double degree, a BA(Honours) in English. Having taken two
basic degrees at the bachelor's level, I then worked towards an MA in anthropology. I
am nowcompleting my PhD in linguistics.’
‘Why are so many young men staying on in universities earningmultiple degrees—and
that, too, in liberal arts?’ whispered Chandinito Gangasagar.
‘So that they continue to remain as students on the campus,’ explained Gangasagar.
‘But why do you need them there?’ asked Chandini.
‘So that they can contest the elections,’ explained Gangasagar.
‘Which elections?’
‘Students’ Union elections.’
‘Why does the ABNS need to involve itself in Students’ Union activities across the
thirty-odd universities of Uttar Pradesh?’
‘Because if our young men control the Students’ Unions of the universities,
we—the ABNS—control the youth, a key constituency in the state's power balance.’
‘And then what will they do?’
‘A liberal arts education is general enough for the IAS—the Indian
Administrative Service or the IRS—the Indian Revenue Service.’

‘So they'll enter the bureaucracy?’ asked Chandini.
‘Some of them will become trade union leaders, others income-tax
commissioners, secretaries within the Reserve Bank of India—there
are so many jobs that need us to have our own people!’
Some paces away, thirty policemen, armed with rifles, stood nearjeeps and police
vans. ‘Why are there so many policemen around ourStudents’ Union presidents?’
asked Chandini.
‘Protection,’ answered her mentor.
‘Protection?’ asked Chandini, confused.
‘Half of our Students’ Union leaders have to be protected fromcandidates of other
parties who are keen to dislodge them.’
‘And the other half?’
‘Others need to be protected from them,’ he guffawed.
‘You need a major victory,’ said Gangasagar, as Chandini walked in.
But I don't know the first thing about fighting elections,’ she said.
‘I don't mean an electoral victory, dear girl. I mean that you need
a huge public relations coup. It should propel you into instant fameso that you're seen
as the true inheritor of Ikram's legacy!’
‘You obviously have something planned, Uncle Ganga,’ she saidastutely.
He smiled. He knew he had made the right choice.
‘Did you know that Rungta & Somany are putting up a huge steelplant on the outskirts
of the city?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I read about it. Its good for the state. More than twenty-fivethousand jobs will be
created upstream and downstream. The projectis being put up in collaboration with a
Japanese multinational andwill be India's largest integrated steel plant, surpassing all
that havebeen built till date,’ said Chandini.
‘Any idea how much land they need?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘I'm told that it will be spread over a thousand acres. The UttarPradesh government
has offered it free. Various state governmentsacross the country have been falling over
themselves to woo R&S. An instant GDP booster shot,’ said Chandini, gesturing.

‘And who owns the land on which the plant is being built?’
‘It's mostly agricultural land. Owned by subsistence farmers.
They're delighted to surrender their land because they've all beenguaranteed jobs by
R&S.’
‘What if the farmers were to revolt? What if they were to announce
that they were being cheated out of their meagre holdings?’
‘The press would have a field day,’ she responded, ‘but it wouldn'tbe good for the
state's economy if R&S pulled out.’
‘I want you to meet a few of the farmers. Get them to make youtheir spokesperson.
Then I want you to sit outside the gates of thatproposed plant and announce that
you're going on an indefinite hunger strike—a fast unto death—until the plight of these
poor unfortunate farmers isn't remedied!’
‘But I'll be hungry!’ she exclaimed.
‘The power of renunciation, Chandini. Remember our history lessons
and Mahatma Gandhi?’
‘But I'm not used to starving myself. My sugar level falls withintwenty-four hours,’ she
whined as she gratefully accepted the sweet cardamom tea offered to her. There was
no beverage better thansweet cardamom tea in Chandini's world.
‘Trust me. You'll have your victory within a day!’
‘How? We haven't even negotiated with the management as yet.’
‘Ah! I forgot to tell you that I had a meeting with Mr Somany—thevice-chairman of
R&S—and...’
‘What?’
‘—he agreed to increase the compensation to farmers.’
‘Firm commitment?’
‘Unfortunately, his partner, the chairman—Mr Rungta—backedout. He said they
couldn't afford to pay more.’
‘So what have you told them?’
‘I've said that we would be willing to give R&S a complete sales-

tax holiday for twenty years—an offer that they're delighted with—ifthe ABNS came to
power in Uttar Pradesh.’
‘And how much is the sales-tax holiday worth?’ she askedshrewdly.
‘Several billions,’ he replied.
‘So you've negotiated to increase what the state government has
Already offered them?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Yes. But they've agreed to channel this money back to the farmersas compensation
for the land.’
‘So they don't have to spend a dime more but can still show thatthey've bowed down to
your wishes and paid a hefty settlement forthe land?’
‘Precisely. Everyone's happy and we have an election victory!’
But—but—why am I going on hunger strike? If we've got theiragreement we could
simply make an announcement to the press,’proposed Chandini.
‘My precious girl. The press is not interested in problems that arealready solved! They
first need a dramatic problem with insurmountable odds. That's what they want to talk
about. They'll lap it up! After we've given them an unsolvable problem, we then give
them a miraculous solution. You'll be an instant heroine!’
Chandini looked at her Uncle Ganga, dazed. She realised that shehad a lot to learn.
‘Go eat a hearty meal. You're not getting any foodtomorrow,’ said Gangasagar as she
got up to leave.
The former police commissioner was seated with Gangasagar in hislittle Birhana Road
flat. ‘I helped Ikram widen the rift between thehome minister and Rajjo Bhaiya—on
your instructions. I've now beenbooted out. You owe me,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I'll arrange an even better post—I'll usemy influence in
New Delhi. But before that you need to do somethingmore for me.’
‘What?’ asked the police commissioner curiously.
‘Shoot Chandini,’ said Gangasagar simply.

he press took an instant liking to the fresh young face that wasbraving the searing heat
to sit outside the plant on a hunger strike.
‘Chandini the Champion’ said the Times of India; ‘Chandini Changes the Deal’ said the
Dainik; ‘Chandini Takes a Chance—and Wins!’ screamed the Lokbharti.
The reporter, who had stood outside Gulbadan's kotha and engineered
the fall of the previous chief minister, was reading the headlines.
He looked at the photographs of the petite young woman,
wearing a plain white cotton saree, looking positively radiant as shesat in silent hunger
protest with hundreds of farmers. His scoop onthe ex-chief minister had made him
famous too. He wondered how
long Chandini's honeymoon with the press would last. A little bit of powder,a little
bit of paint, makes a girl seem what shein't, he thoughtto himself. Where was the dirt?
He decided to look under the carpet.
‘Your daughter is amazing,’ said Gangasagar to Ikrambhai as they satin his veranda
sipping iced lemonade.
‘Technically speaking, she's not my daughter. I was unable to adopt
her. Muslim Personal Law didn't recognise it and the courts wereunwilling to ratify it, as
you well know,’ replied Ikram wryly.
‘It's the thought that counts. Everyone sees her as your naturalsuccessor—your
legacy,’ remarked Gangasagar.
‘That's funny,’ said Ikram.
‘What?’ asked Gangasagar, putting his glass down on the table infront of him.
‘To be succeeded when one hasn't even succeeded!’ he burst out,
as Gangasagar laughed.
‘So what is it that you want me to do?’ asked Ikram as they drainedtheir glasses.
‘I'll handle the vote-gathering but you handle the counting,’ saidGangasagar.
‘The Election Commission does the counting—not me!’

‘But what if there's vote-rigging? Electoral malpractices are
rampant, Ikram. I need you to handle it.’
‘You want me to go around the state in an SUV capturing pollingstations and stuffing
ballots favouring the ABNS?’ asked Ikram, relishing
the thought of some good old-fashioned muscle power.
‘No. I simply need you to station your lookouts at every pollingstation. The slightest
sign of electoral malpractice and you phoneme.’
‘And you'll come flying in, like Superman, and ensure that thepolling station is not
captured?’ asked Ikram sarcastically.
‘No. But at least we'll know if we need to compensate by capturingsome other polling
station elsewhere!’
‘Who's the Opposition's main candidate in Pilibhit constituency?’
asked Gangasagar.
‘Ramprasad Trivedi,’ replied Chandini.
‘Find me someone else with the same name. And who is the
primary competition in Bisalpur?’
‘Rafiq Ahmed Hussain.’
‘That shouldn't be hard. Let's get someone with an identical nameto contest in
Bisalpur. Any idea who the strongest aspirant in Puranpur is?’
‘Prakash Yadav.’
‘Find me another Prakash Yadav.’
‘You want us to hand out ABNS tickets to people who have noqualifications, no
experience, no vote-share, simply because theyhave names that are identical to those
of their strongest opponents?’
‘No. Not ABNS tickets. We'll fund them but they'll contest as independents.’
‘And why are we doing this?’
‘Because the votes of the primary Opposition candidates will thenget split. From the
confusion in the similar-sounding names, someof their rightful votes will get logged as
favouring the identically-named independents financed by us.’

‘Is this a worthwhile exercise? Finding hundreds of independentsto contest against the
Opposition?’
‘Winning is not only about strengthening yourself; it's also aboutweakening the enemy.
Anything that reduces the Opposition's vote-
share must be done if we're to win.’
‘But the opposing parties may adopt the same strategy with us,’argued Chandini.
‘When is the notification of elections expected from the ElectionCommission?’
‘April twenty-first.’
‘And the last date for filing nominations would be a week thereafter—April
twenty-eighth, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What's the deadline for filing nominations on April twentyeighth?’
‘6.30 pm.’
‘I want all our independents to file their nominations from variousconstituencies at six
pm on April twentyeighth. Let's not give the opposition
any time to react.’
The phone bill would be enormous and his editor would be furious.
But everything would be accepted once the story was splashed asheadlines across
their front page. ‘Chandini's Love Child’ would besensational. The investigative
reporter silently thanked God for giving
him a sensitive nose—he could sniff dirt a mile away.
Everyone has a past, he thought. And this beloved idol of theyouth, this new sensation,
Chandini, was no different. Acting on thisassumption, he had made a few phone calls
to one of his cousins, ateacher who had emigrated to England a few years previously.
Thecousin had promised to make a few discreet enquiries in the Oxfordarea. The
cousin's friend—a doctor—had checked with the National
Health Service. A few days later he phoned to say that Chandini's assigned

GP in Oxford had indeed issued her a medical certificate inorder to get leave of
absence from classes at St Hilda's. The reasonprovided on the certificate was ‘intense
menstrual cramps’. No onetook eight weeks off because of menstrual cramps,
reasoned the curious
doctor. A quiet word with the local GP had led to the matronlyabortive douche lady,
and from her to the Mother & Baby home inGrasmere.
He looked at the first draft of the story that lay before him. ‘Thesacred goddess being
worshipped in temples across Uttar Pradesh,
and indeed in many other parts of India, is not Lakshmi, Saraswati orDurga, but a new
sensation called Chandini. The refreshingly youngand attractive politician has won the
hearts and minds of voters andnow looks poised to seriously contend for the coveted
chief minister's
post. She fasts unto death for farmers, preaches honesty, integrity
and lofty values of moral and ethical conduct. But how many areactually aware of the
background of this debutante? Not many, as itturns out. All that we seem to know is
that she wears off-white sarees
and looks good in them. But a little research led this reporter to findthe dirt that has
stained her pure and pristine snow-white image. Hewas shocked with what he
discovered.’
Perfect start. He looked over the rest of his story that he had typedusing his trusted
Remington electric typewriter, and walked over tothe editor's desk. ‘You'll find that my
expense log is justified once youread what I've just submitted,’ he said as he walked
back to his deskand covered his typewriter with a grey plastic dust cover.
You need to go to England and verify the facts,’ said the editor as heread the story.
‘Wh—what? Since when does this rag have the budget for a reporter
to travel across continents to verify his facts?’ he asked. ‘Youcrib if I take a cab!’
‘The budget appeared after we decided that we don't wish to getour asses kicked by
her adoptive father—Ikrambhai—or our assessued by her godfather, Gangasagar.’

Gangasagar can't touch me. He knows that I helped him with theexpose on the last
chief minister. He wouldn't be figuring out waysto place his protégé on the throne if it
weren't for my story havingdestroyed the last poor sucker!’
‘And we can't be seen as a rag that's keen to carry out a moralcrusade against every
chief minister or aspirant. That's why we need you to go verify the facts for yourself.
The story is too explosive tobe based on the hear say of a cousin!’
The flight to London via Cairo and Geneva was to take off from NewDelhi two hours
later. An economy-class ticket had been provided tohim along with a frugal travel
allowance. He would need to stay inrat-infested hellholes to survive on that. Having
checked in his suitcase,he headed over to passport control where the officer
cursorilylooked over and stamped his travel papers. He took back his passport
and placed it in the leather duffel bag he had slung over hisshoulders. He reached the
departure area and went through security.‘What's this, sir?’ asked the security officer
as he unzipped theduffel bag. At the bottom of the bag was a little parcel wrapped
ingrey plastic and held together by duct tape. ‘That's not mine,’ saidthe reporter,
wondering how the parcel had gotten into his bag. Thesecurity officer, a burly Jat from
Haryana, ignored the answer andtook out a penknife with which he proceeded to
puncture the parcel.
A white, crystal-like powder spilled out. The security officertouched the powder with his
forefinger and dabbed it lightly on histongue. It was odourless but bitter. It was
definitely heroin. ‘Are youaware of the provisions of the Dangerous Drugs Act, 1930,
read withthe relevant provisions of the Opium Act, 1878, sir?’ asked the security
officer as he signalled one of his colleagues to cuff the offender.
‘That's not mine! I'm telling you that I don't know how it gotthere—’ he protested but it
was of no avail. The muscular Jat alreadyhad him bent him over the security check
counter, with his armspulled tightly behind his back, and with a pair of cuffs on his
wrists.

‘If this is not your parcel, how are your fingerprints on the plastic,
eh?’ he shouted. The officer pulled him by the scruff of his neck,
pushed him against a wall and asked him to spread his legs. Hequickly patted him
down and also gave him a sly pinch on his ass.‘Just checking to see whether your ass
can take the treatment thatit's gonna get in prison,’ he growled.
As the reporter was loaded into the police jeep outside the airporten route to custodial
lockup, he wondered, ‘How the fuck did the security chap know that my fingerprints
were on the plastic withouthaving it dusted or examined?’ He then remembered the
grey plasticdust cover on his Remington electric typewriter in the newspaper office.
He cursed Gangasagar, his editor, and his luck—in that order.
Anjali arrived in her chauffeured silver Jaguar XJS, wearing a chiclemon cotton saree.
The Bollywood sex symbol had tied back herlong auburn hair with a white Hermès
scarf and her eyes were hidden behind an extremely expensive pair of Versace
sunglasses. Shegently dabbed her kerchief under the sunglasses and the
paparazzicontingent immediately burnt up their flash bulbs taking photos ofthe sultry
goddess, looking positively delicious in her designer election
ensemble—excellent breakfast material for the pathetic, inquisitive
masses.The streets leading up to the rally site were festooned with bunting
and flags and a hundred thousand people lined up waiting fora glimpse of two female
deities—one political and the other filmic. The rally ground was an expanse of saffron,
green and red—the threecolours of the ABNS flag. Saffron for Hindus, green for
Muslims andred for the Dalits. Towards one corner was a massive stage adornedlike
the rest of the rally grounds with banners and flowers. Anjaliwalked up to the stage
where Chandini awaited her. The womenhugged each other as though they were the
best of friends. Theywere actually meeting each other for the very first time. Behind
themwere massive rose-pink cut-outs of their images, almost fifteen feethigh—
Bollywood movie poster-style. The image of Chandini showedher with an angelic
expression on her face, holding the scales ofjustice in one hand and a sword in the
other. The poster of Anjalishowed her holding a Statue of Liberty-inspired flaming
torch.

Both women stood on stage as party workers brought out massivesix-inch-thick
garlands fashioned from marigolds and red-green ribbons—another reminder of the
party colours—and garlanded themas though they were indeed manifestations of
deities. Both womencontinued to remain standing, waving to the adoring crowds.
‘I promise you that I shall deliver pure, unadulterated justice toyou, my beloved people.
And if this hand ever needs to hold a swordto deliver justice, it shall rise for one reason
alone—to defend thepoor and downtrodden of this state!’ shouted Chandini
emotionallyinto the microphone as echoes of her words bounced off massivespeakers
located all over the rally ground. Thousands of her supporters roared in glee and
chanted, ‘Till the sun and moon shall be, Chandini's name immortal be!’
‘I am humbled by your love. I am honoured by your respect. I amblessed by your
support. I am energised by your enthusiasm. I ammotivated by your confidence in me.
I shall not let you down—ever!’ she thundered as the crowd burst into deafening
applause. Police hadcordoned off the stage where the two women were standing.
Hundreds of baton-wielding khaki-clad cops wearing riot helmets werepreventing the
surge of humanity from clambering up the platform.
Chandini sat down and Anjali arose to speak. She was nervous. Itwas one thing to
utter the lines of a screenplay in front of a moviecamera, and quite another to deliver a
speech to hundreds of thousands of screaming political activists. She was only here
because herspecial nocturnal friend—Somany—had insisted that her endorsement
of Chandini was vital.
‘In a state that has remained enveloped by the darkness ofpoverty, disease, illiteracy
and feudalism, there is a single light thatshines bright! I see the light! Do you?’ she
yelled, and the grounds reverberated with approval. ‘The light is intense, it's
incandescent, it'sthe brightest light I've ever seen. This light can illuminate, this light is

pure, this light is unadulterated energy, this light is the light thatshall envelope Uttar
Pradesh—Chandini!’
As the multitude went berserk and howled their approval, a shotrang out. It would not
have been heard if it were not for the fact thatthe gun had been fired near an open
microphone. Chandini fell to theground clutching her right shoulder. Blood was trickling
through herfingers and a large red stain had developed on her off-white blouseand
saree. Anjali threw herself to the ground and cradled Chandini'shead in her lap as the
security officers rushed to prevent the frenziedcrowds from reaching them. The
Doordarshan television camera andthe hundred press photographers beautifully
captured the sentimentof the moment.
‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Prithum
Bhagvati,
Namo
Namah;
Kundalini
Mata
Shakti;
Mata
Shakti,
NamoNamah,’ whispered Gangasagar as he watched the proceedings froma distance.

They were standing in the hospital corridor outside her room. Members
of the press had been barred from entering the premises. Theyhad created a makeshift
camp outside the hospital gates and weresnapping photos of everyone—including
startled patients—as theycame and went.
‘How is she,’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Fine,’ said Menon, ‘the bullet grazed her right shoulder. A fewstitches, some dressing
and antibiotics—and she should be ready togo.’
‘Did you meet the former police commissioner?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Yes. He's a crack shot—I'd told him that it should be her rightside, not left. Too much
risk of her heart being in the vicinity,’ explained Menon.
‘Sometimes I wonder whether the girl has a heart,’ murmuredGangasagar, ‘she
reminds me so much of myself. Did you also tellhim that you didn't want the bullet to
actually pierce her but onlygraze her?’
‘I did. He told me that there were no guarantees on that one,
though. We'd asked him to shoot near an open microphone so thatthe shot would be
heard. He performed well—he's waiting for you toput in a word so that he gets a fresh
assignment in New Delhi.’
‘Yes, I promised him. She doesn't know anything, does she?’
‘No.’
‘How many times has the scene been replayed on Doordarshan?’
‘Around fifty times.’
‘Get the press photos of Chandini's head being cradled in Anjali'slap. Put it on posters
with the slogan—I am willing to shed every drop of my blood in the service of my

people. Have thousands of posters printed and plastered over the city. I want her to be
a martyr withouthaving died!’‘But the doctor will be letting her leave pretty soon. She
doesn'trequire hospitalisation—it's a surface wound only,’ argued Menon.
‘Get the doctor over here. I want him to announce that she's beingkept overnight for
observation.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing else. Never tell a lie unless it's absolutely necessary.’
‘Should he reveal that she's in no danger?’
‘He should say that she's out of danger, but only tomorrow morning.
There's a significant difference between lying and delaying thetruth!’
‘Uncle Ganga, stop fussing over me. I need to get up, leave this miserable
hospital and get back to my election rallies,’ she protested.
‘Chandini. You're not going back to any election rally. Battles arewon or lost before
they are ever fought. This one has already beenwon.’
‘So I do nothing till polling day?’
‘Ah! You shall be busy. I have arranged an aircraft that will takeyou from here to
Tirumala. From Tirumala you shall proceed to Goa,
and onwards to Ajmer. The same aircraft will then take you to Amritsar
and you'll be back here in three days.’
‘But why am I going to all these places? There are no elections being
held in any of them!’ she argued.
‘In Tirumala you shall bow down before Lord Venkateshwara andmake the Hindus
happy. In Goa you shall light a candle at Bom Jesus
and make the Christians happy. You shall next go place a chadorof flowers at the
Dargah of Moinuddin Chisti in Ajmer, making theMuslims happy. Finally, you shall offer
prayers at the Golden Templein Amritsar, making the Sikhs happy. After you have
made everyonehappy, they will make you happy—by electing your party to
government.’

In Mumbai's hip Bandra suburb sat the homes of Bollywood's richand famous.
Bollywood siren Anajali's home was a beautiful palatialsea-facing house, guarded by a
massive iron gate and tight security.
She needed the last. Not because she faced a threat, but because of
the very special friend—Somany—who visited her most nights.
After her emotional speech in support of Chandini at the rally,
Gangasagar had taken her aside. ‘You are endowed with specialgifts,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘many people have told me that both are spectacular.’
Nothing flustered the old man. ‘Yes, I understand that. But I wastalking about your
ability to express yourself—to influence peopleand their emotions. Have you ever
considered joining politics?’
‘I would love to sit in Parliament, but I don't have the patience forelections. Alas, I'm
resigned to my fate as a Bollywood sex symbol.’
‘Not necessarily. Because of the public support you brought us, weshall soon be in
government in Uttar Pradesh. We shall be happy to nominate you to the Rajya
Sabha—the Upper House. You get to sitin Parliament, and that too without undergoing
elections!’
‘And what's the catch? You're not one of those dirty old men, areyou?’ she smiled.
‘My dear Anjali. I'm a dirty man—but not in the field of love. Onlypolitics. And all politics
is dirty. Clean politics is an oxymoron.’
‘So what is it that you want from me if not a cuddle?’ she asked,
her eyes twinkling.
‘Let's just say that I'll call in the favour whenever I need it. Inthe meantime, do continue
to have fun with your special nocturnalfriend.’
‘And it now seems clear that the Uttar Pradesh assembly electionsare likely to throw
up an unclear mandate with no single partybeing able to form the government on its

own,’ droned the newsanchor. Agrawalji, Ikrambhai, Menon and Gangasagar were
seatedin Agrawalji's living room watching the polling results as they wereflowing in.
‘I thought you said Chandini would become chief minister,’ said avisibly worried
Agrawalji. He had spent millions financing the ABNSand was seeing his investment
being washed down the drain.
‘I never said that Chandini would become chief minister. I said
that the ABNS would hold the reigns of power.’
‘How in heaven's name are you so damn flippant about suchthings, Gangasagarji?’
exclaimed Ikram.
‘Menon, how many seats does the Uttar Pradesh assembly have?’
asked Gangasagar.
‘Four hundred and three,’ replied Menon.
‘And how many of those seats are with the ABNS?’ ‘One hundredand sixty.’ ‘So we're
forty-two short of the halfway mark for a majority,right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any party in the state that has won more seats than the
ABNS?’
‘No. The next highest has ninety-nine.’
‘And as per the Constitution of the country, the governor of thestate must invite the
leader of the party that has obtained the maximum
number of seats in the assembly to form a government. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘The problem, of course, is that if the governor invites the ABNS toform the next
government, we would need to entice opposition MLAsto cross over to our side.’
‘So what?’
‘They'll want cabinet berths. Our own members will be deprivedof positions. We'll have
disciplinary problems.’
‘So you don't want the governor to invite us?’ asked the perplexed Agrawalji.
‘If we don't produce adequate letters of support from MLAs of other

parties, he'll have to ask the next largest party to try cobbling together a government.’
‘Yes, but if they need to reach the halfway mark they'll need ahundred and three allies
in addition to the ninetynine MLAs that theyalready have. They would need our ABNS
MLAs to get a working majority in the house.’
‘Suppose we offer them our entire strength?’ asked Gangasagar quietly.
‘What? Are you out of your fucking mind?’ yelled Ikram.
‘My price for ABNS support is that I want each and every cabinetberth for my MLAs. All
the portfolios—home, finance, revenue, industries,
human resources—must be allotted to us. They can havetheir chief minister.’
‘And what happens to Chandini?’
‘She waits for the government to go into paralysis.’
‘Paralysis?’
‘What will their chief minister do when all his decisions getstalled? All the portfolios
shall be with us.’
‘But what if the paralysis prompts the governor to ask New Delhi
to step in and impose President's Rule?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘The governor won't ask for President's Rule.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the president will advise him against it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the prime minister will not recommend it to the president.’
‘And you have direct access to the prime minister of India?’
‘Well, almost.’
The sadhvi was dressed in a simple, pale saffron saree and chose toremain barefoot.
Around her neck was a string of rudraksha
prayerbeads. She was a beautiful woman, and not in the physical sensealone. True,
she was fair-complexioned, shapely and her smiling facewas framed by her open
shoulder-length hair. But these aside, herface reflected deep spiritual contentment. Her
presence was almostmagical—radiating quiet confidence and divine serenity.

She sat on a comfortable sofa facing a large picture window thatframed a rose garden.
It was summer and the searing heat of NewDelhi was kept at bay by the quiet hum of
air-conditioning within. Toher left sat the prime minister of India, on an armchair slightly
lowerthan the sadhvi's sofa—in deference to the sadhvi's enlightened soul.
‘What is bothering you, child?’ she asked him.
‘I'm rather worried, blessed mother,’ he replied.
It was ironic. He was sixty, and she barely thirty, but she insistedon addressing him as
‘child’ and being addressed as ‘mother’. Anyonelistening in on their conversation would
have laughed but their conversations were always entirely private. The prime minister's
secretary was not allowed to make any entry either in the official entry logor in the
prime ministerial diary.
‘I know—I can tell. A mother always knows when her child is introuble,’ she
commented softly.
‘The situation in Uttar Pradesh is confusing. The ABNS emerged asthe single largest
party. The governor had asked us—informally—ifhe should invite them to form the next
state government. We felt thatthere were sufficient grounds not to invite them.’
‘Such as?’
‘They did not have a clear majority.’
‘Neither did your party—you had fewer numbers than them!’
‘But they did not even attempt to muster letters of support fromlegislators outside their
party. They made it painfully easy for us toconvince the governor to invite the secondlargest
formation—ourown party—to form the government.’
‘So what seems to be the trouble? Aren't you happy that yourparty is in government in
Uttar Pradesh?’

‘At what price? We had only ninety-nine legislators of our own.
The balance hundred and three had to be pulled in from the ABNS toget a working
majority. None of them wanted any monetary reward,
only ministerial berths.’
‘And you obliged?’
‘Yes. But it meant making the cabinet gigantic—sixty members!
The entire cabinet—with the exception of the chief minister—is
drawn from the ABNS. The tail is wagging the dog!’
‘And this troubles you?’
‘O blessed mother, we shall soon have a revolt within our ranks in
Uttar Pradesh. Our own MLAs—who have been denied cabinet positions
to accommodate the ABNS—are up in arms.’
‘Do you believe that your state government in Uttar Pradesh willfall, child?’
‘Yes, blessed mother, I do.’
‘And what will be the implications of this elsewhere in the country?’
‘State elections are due in several states over the next year. Aproblem in Uttar
Pradesh will send out a very negative signal to the
rest of India. It will suggest that our party is not in control of things.’
What are your political options, child?’
‘I'm damned either way. If I don't do anything, we'll have a rebellion,
the government will fall and the Opposition will slide easily intopower. If I ask the
president to declare President's Rule—governmentby New Delhi—I'll be called a traitor
to the Constitution, a backdoormanipulator.’
‘Come over here, child,’ she commanded suddenly. He rose andwalked over to her
and knelt before her.
She placed a hand on his head and chanted some prayers fervently,
with her eyes closed. A minute later, she opened her eyes anddirected, ‘Your answer
will be with you by tomorrow!’

‘But blessed mother—’ he began.
‘Sshh!’ she admonished him, placing a finger upon his lips. Hertouch was electrifying.
‘Haven't I guided you correctly in the past?’she asked.
He nodded quietly.
‘Then do as I say!’ she instructed.

CHAPTER NINE
About 2300 years ago
A special camp had been set up along the border of Gandhar. Luxurious
tents, overflowing with food, wine, perfume, musiciansand dancing girls, were buzzing
with activity, the event managers desperately
keeping up with the demands of Ambhi. He certainly knewhow to throw a party.
‘Alexander is no less than a god who shall helpme crush that devil—Paurus!
Alexander's welcome to Gandhar should
reflect his exalted status,’ said Ambhi to his new ministers—
handpicked loyalists who had no ties to his dead father.
The cacophony of marching drums and bugles accompanied by theominous stomping
of thousands of feet was deafening. The Alexanderwar machine marched like a swarm
of killer ants ready for a feedingfrenzy. As their feet trampled the ground, the dull
vibration of theinfantry's advance sounded a sinister warning to those who
venturednear. The main body of the army had traversed the Khyber Pass whilea
smaller contingent directly under the command of Alexander hadtaken the more
circuitous northern route, capturing the fort of Pir-sarin a victory that had eluded the
great Heracles before him.
Hearing the approach of the Graeco-Macedonian monster, Ambhi'scamp fell into a
silent hush. The Gandhar musicians stopped blowingtrumpets and beating drums, the
dancing girls stopped gyrating theirbellies and hips as the music ceased. The sound of
the approachingMacedonian army was dull, a bit like the lumbering tread of a giantthat
shook the earth each time it placed another foot forward.

‘Maybe we've been duped,’ whispered one minister excitedly to another.
‘Isn't it possible that we've dropped our dhotis in humble obeisance
only to be raped?’ His colleague gestured for him to shut up.
Both of them would be roasted on the skewers that were being used
to cook meat for the flesh-loving visitors if Ambhi heard them. He silently
muttered a few expletives as he maintained a plastic smile forthe benefit of his
monarch.
A special platform had been constructed at a huge height. It wasto be used by the two
leaders to be seen embracing one another in order
to send out a signal of their mutual friendship to the men. Ambhiclimbed the stairs that
led to it, to get a better view of the approaching
behemoth, slightly out of breath. His eyes were bloodshot fromexcessive drinking,
though his physique continued to remain fit andfirm. His face had a permanent scowl
that looked even more menacing
when he smiled or flashed his teeth. He was always attired impeccably,
with colour-coordinated turban, dhoti, wrap, slippers andjewellery. If his outfit was of a
reddish hue, his jewellery would consist
of rubies or pink diamonds; if his clothes were green, the jewels
were emeralds; if his ensemble was blue, the gems would be sapphires;
of course, diamonds went with any colour. Ambhi squinted ashe tried to gaze into the
distance. All he could see was what lookedlike a gathering storm in the distance. It was
actually the dust beingkicked up from the earth as Alexander's phalanxes marched
inexorably
to the beat of the drummers.
After an interminable wait, Ambhi could eventually discern theinfantry wearing
protective bronze armour, including bronze legguarding
greaves and helmets with cheek guards and decorated withplumed crests of
horsehair. All of them were carrying bronze andleather shields, long spears and

shorter swords. Flanking the infantryon either side was the companion cavalry of
around three thousand,
which had been divided into groups of two hundred each.
The horses seemed oversized and well-fed, each animal draped withthick felt over its
sides. The beasts were armoured with breast and
head plating and their riders, wearing bronze cuirasses, shoulderguards and Boeotian
helmets, carried xystons and shorter curvedslashing swords. Alexander's army was a
sight to behold. Ambhigulped nervously and wondered whether he had bitten off more
thanhe could chew.
Quite unexpectedly, there was silence. The drums and buglesceased. Alexander
halted his battalions and rode up to Ambhi's campalone. ‘Horse shit! Why are these
things not choreographed in advance,’
Ambhi muttered to himself as he ran down the stairs frantically
to mount his own steed and ride towards the Macedonian divinity.
Both horses slowed towards the final stretch, each of the ridersnot wishing to appear
over-eager. Ambhi was wondering what Alexander
would say to him.Ambhi,
I
think
you're
a
great
big
bloodsuckingleech.
I
don't
need
you
to
fight

my
battles
for
me.
Fuck
with
someone
else?
Trailing behind each rider were four or five other horsemen—
bodyguards, interpreters, scribes and advisors. At length,
when they drew up before one another, Alexander spoke first.
‘Ambhi. I think you're a great—’
Ambhi broke out in a cold sweat. Was Alexander about to humiliate
him?
‘—friend of Alexander. I too extend my hand of friendship to you.
Together we shall create a formidable alliance!’ declared Alexanderthrough Sasigupta,
his Afghan lieutenant who was playing interpreter.
Ambhi heaved a sigh of relief. It was working out as planned—hismoment of triumph. A
grand alliance with the greatest warrior onearth!
Ambhi was at his humble best. ‘Why should we battle one another,
O Alexander? It is evident to me that you do not wish to rob us of ourfood or water, the
only two necessities of life for which intelligentmen will feel compelled to fight. As for
wealth, I have more than Ican possibly use and I shall be happy to share it with you, O
fortunate
one!’

Both men having dismounted, Alexander embraced Ambhi andjokingly said, ‘Do you
think that your courtesy, charm and impeccable
manners will prevent a fight between us? You're mistaken. Ishall fight you, O Ambhi, to
determine who can be a better friendand I promise you that you shall not have the
better of me!’
The Jhelum was in full flood. Monsoon winds had lashed the Punjablandscape
mercilessly, and the men and their equipment were
soaked. An endless stream of thick muddy water flowed down thehills and made it
impossible to walk even a few steps without slipping.
There was water everywhere—in the river, in the rains, in theMacedonian army's food,
in their tents, even in their cooking fires!
Damn the water!
Worsening the situation, Alexander kept insisting that they moveseveral miles up and
down the riverbank each day so as to keep theother side guessing about the possible
crossing point. The brilliantmilitary strategist in Alexander knew that every move made
by hisforces stationed on the right bank of the Jhelum was being shadowedby
Paurus's troops on the left bank. He also knew that the massiveKaikey forces—fifty
thousand infantry, five thousand cavalry, threehundred war chariots and over two
hundred war elephants—vastlyoutnumbered his.
He would need to play this game meticulously. ‘Seleucus!’ hecalled out to his trusted
general.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Seleucus, walking up briskly to Alexander, ignoring
the aide who had been buffing his armour.
‘Can you look like me?’ asked Alexander in all earnestness.

‘No one can look like you, O lord, you're divine!’ exclaimedSeleucus laying on a thick
layer of buttery praise. He knew it hadworked when Alexander smiled at him. Flattery
will
get
you
everywhere,
thought Seleucus.
‘No, no. I mean from a distance. Suppose we leave the royal tentin place, leave the
bulk of the infantry along with it, leave the royalpavilion untouched and have someone
who looks like me paradingevery once in a while wearing my royal robes. Would it be
enough toconvince the other side that we've not moved?’ asked the ingenioustactician.
Seleucus smiled. He knew what Alexander was thinking. Itwas the classic pincer move
that he was famous for—leave the enemy
open to attack on both flanks.
‘Better than me, would be Phillipos. He has more of your build,
my lord. As I see it, we should be able to convince Paurus's lookoutsthat we've not
moved. The more critical question is, what then? Howdo we cross the Jhelum and
where?’ asked Seleucus, knowing fullywell that his boss already knew the answer.
‘Remember those rafts we used to build the pontoon bridge acrossthe Indus? What if
we cut them into pieces, carry them quietly toa spot some miles upstream and
reassemble them there? We couldthen use the rafts to cross,’ explained Alexander.
‘Chopping up and putting together rafts for forty thousand menand three thousand
horses? That's impossible!’ spluttered Seleucusincredulously. His men were already
complaining that they were wetand weary.
‘Ah! You and I shall take the entire cavalry of three thousand butonly ten thousand of
the infantry. The vast remainder will stay righthere with Phillipos. Once we have

crossed the river with our secretforces, we shall attack Paurus from the rear,’
explained Alexandertriumphantly.
‘But he may turn around and attack us with his full might,’ arguedSeleucus. ‘We'll be
vastly outnumbered, my lord. He has hundreds ofelephants,’ he said nervously.
‘That's the moment for Phillipos to cross, my friend!’ reasoned Alexander.
‘Either way Paurus would be compelled to fight on two fronts,’ rationalised
Seleucus as the full import of his master's strategy sunk in.
‘We're being attacked,’ yelled the vanguard of Kaikey's massive army.
Like an echo, the message was relayed through a series of shouts until
it reached the ears of the towering Paurus. His name was derivedfrom Purushottam—
Supreme
Being—
and he looked nothing less thanthat. Standing over six-and-a-half feet in height, the
king had a radiant
glow on his face that was accentuated by his curled and oiledmoustache, in the typical
fashion of Rajput warriors. He wore his military armour and regalia as though it were
an intrinsic part of hisroyal personage. His muscles rippled with every move that he
made,
his chest puffed out with muscular pride. His fair skin was wet fromthe rains but each
droplet clung to his frame as though it were inlove with his body, refusing to let go of
the physical contact. His jetblack
hair hung down to his shoulders and was held in place by aruby-encrusted
helmet that covered half his face. He was the mightyPaurus. Having subdued the hill
kingdoms of Kashmir, Mallayrajya,

Kuluta, and Sindh, he was rightly entitled to the title of Parvateshwar—
Conqueror of the Mountains.
‘How can that be?’ Paurus asked his prime minister, Indradutt.
‘Hadn't your lookouts told us that Alexander's army continues to remain
stationed across the Jhelum right before our very eyes?’
‘Yes, my lord. In fact, Abhaya's spies also chatted with the localfarmers who told them
that Alexander had surveyed the river yesterday
and had blurted out that the river was just too deep and wide tothink of an immediate
crossing,’ answered Indradutt.
‘O Indradutt, my trusted advisor. We've been tricked by that craftydevil. Tell the
charioteers and archers to swing around and teachAlexander a lesson that he will
never forget!’ thundered Paurus, asmonsoon rains continued to lash down on him.
Indradutt nodded
and went over to convey the message to the commander-in-chiefwho was in utter
panic. His chariots were slipping in the smoothclayey soil and they had already lost
several of them. The archers’two-metre highbows—monstrous weapons that could
shoot spearsinstead of arrows—needed firm ground on which to be anchored andin
this weather firm ground was an impossibility.
Kaikey's elephants were their biggest strength. Desperate to relieve
the rear that was bearing the brunt of the attack, Paurus commanded
that the elephants be called into action. As the giant pachyderms
lumbered towards the terrified Macedonian forces, they weresuddenly attacked by
axes and spears hurled by horrendous catapults.
As the hatchets and lances began to meet their mark, the tuskers
went wild and, in the ensuing stampede, trampled Kaikey's ownbattalions. Just when
things couldn't possibly get worse, news came in that the attack from the rear had

een carried out by only a smallcontingent of Alexander's troops and that the
remaining troops commanded
by Phillipos were now crossing the Jhelum and attackingthe front.
The valiant Paurus seated on the howdah of his elephant towardsthe centre of the
battlefield then received devastating news. Both hissons had been killed, one
defending the tail and the other the headof Kaikey's army. With nothing left to lose,
Paurus asked his mahoutto charge towards Alexander so that he could put a spear
through theinvader's heart. It was the opportunity that Alexander had been waiting
for. He ordered his phalanx to move and surround Paurus and hispersonal battalion.
The mayhem that followed was pure butchery.
Rivulets of blood flowed down the banks to meet the mighty Jhelumas thousands of
Kaikey's soldiers were massacred.
Having pulled out a javelin piercing his right shoulder, the bravePaurus, now weak
from loss of blood, staggered off his elephant andwas instantly surrounded by
Alexander's men who took him captive.
The magnificent and proud warrior had lost none of his dignity ashe was brought
before Alexander who was flanked by Ambhi. ‘Howshall I treat you, O Paurus,’ asked a
bloody Alexander with the swagger
of a victor. Ambhi smiled smugly—this was going to be fun.
‘Treat me, O Alexander, as befits a king!’ replied Paurus as hestood in chains before
his subjugator, defeated but not dispirited,
wounded but not vanquished, chained but no less proud.
The stately answer brought a smile to Alexander's face. ‘For myown sake, I would do
that, O Paurus,’ said Alexander, and the smile
disappeared from Ambhi's face. ‘Ask for any boon and it shall beyours,’ said Alexander
grandly and Paurus replied, ‘All that I want isincluded in that request.’

Alexander was not immune to acts of bravery, chivalry and stateliness.
He walked up to Paurus, embraced him, and said, ‘From thisday on, you're my friend,
my ally. I give you back your kingdom andyour lands. Make peace with Ambhi and rule
in my name!’The tearful Paurus threw away the last vestiges of his reserve andmade
peace with Alexander and Ambhi.
Chanakya was sitting with Chandragupta on the floor of his hut eating
poha—flattened and roasted rice. ‘What have we achieved, wise
teacher?’ asked Chandragupta, baffled by the sudden turn of events.
‘Everything that we wanted,’ said the Brahmin taking a handful ofpoha from the leaf.
Outside the hut, there were sounds of men going through theirmid-morning drill. The
official supervising them was calling them abunch of sissies for not running fast
enough, jumping high enough,
hitting hard enough or throwing far enough. He pushed them hardereach day. He
wanted a small but extremely effective and overwhelmingly
powerful force—one that would be able to capitalise onstrength, speed, flexibility and
surprise.
Ignoring the harsh and sometimes unholy language being used bythe drill sergeant
outside, Chanakya calmly continued. ‘Alexanderdefeated Paurus. Paurus lost twentythree
thousand troops. He's nowa mere vassal of Alexander. We could never have
achieved that byourselves,’ reasoned Chanakya.
‘But we've created a stronger Alexander,’ exclaimed Chandragupta,
popping some more of the spicy rice mixture into his eagermouth.

‘Exactly the opposite, dear Chandragupta. Alexander's men weretired and weary even
before the battle with Paurus began. TheJhelum victory came at a very high price. Our
undercover operativestell us that Alexander's men are refusing to march further. The
worldcould not stop Alexander's advance but a single battle with the courageous
but foolish Paurus has halted him in his tracks!’ laughedChanakya.
‘I continue to have reservations about what we did. We should
have fought for what was right!’
‘Chandragupta, my son, a battle is never about who's right. It'smostly about who's left!’
‘So what happens now, acharya?’
‘Alexander will turn back. He'll leave Bharat soon. He'll probablydesignate Seleucus as
governor in charge of the conquered territories.
That's when we'll make our move,’ said Chanakya.
From outside sounds of hundreds of batons crashing against oneanother accentuated
Chanakya's words. Silambam—bamboo staff
combat—was on. The trainer had studied ancient martial arts from
all over Bharat and had incorporated these into the exercises of his
men.
‘We're lucky to have him with us,’ commented Chandragupta ashe heard the sounds of
bamboo shafts being thrashed against eachother.
‘As long as he remains away from the arms of Mainika, we shouldbe fine,’ commented
Chanakya with a roguish grin on his face.
‘I'll never understand how you managed to convince Ambhi'scommander-in-chief to
become our trainer!’ burst out Chandragupta.

‘He had no choice but to join us. He was having a siesta in his harlot's
bedroom while Takshila was being taken over by Kaikey's forces.
He couldn't expect to be welcomed back by Gandharraj or Ambhi.
They would have had his head impaled on a spike and paraded forhis folly! I offered
him an alternative.’
‘Hah! He didn't have an alternative!’
‘True. Always remember that a conjurer will offer you alternativesto choose from but
you always end up picking the one that he wantsyou to!’
‘I don't understand. You talk in riddles sometimes, acharya!’ complained
Chandragupta.
‘Who is Mainika? How did she acquire the jalakrida for the commander's
aquatic delights? How did Abhaya, the intelligence operative
of Indradutt, get a whiff of this news and decide to use it toKaikey's advantage?’ asked
the crafty teacher quietly.
Chandragupta bowed down before his guru and touched his feet.
He knew that he was in the presence of the ultimate master—not ofthe martial arts that
were being taught outside but of the craft thatwas taught inside.
‘Protect me, O wise guru, for I have sinned,’ pleaded Ambhi as heprostrated himself
before Chanakya. ‘Rise, O King of Gandhar. I'mnot aware of any sin committed by
you. You seem to be underthe mistaken impression that I am omniscient and
omnipresent!’
joked Chanakya. The young king rose and straightened himself. Withhands still folded
in a gesture of obeisance, he said, ‘I should neverhave extended my hand of friendship

to Alexander. All that I gainedwas the wrath of my own people. Even the defeat of
Paurus was novictory because Alexander made Paurus his satrap instead of handing
over his kingdom to me.’
‘Gandhar is big enough for the ambitions of Ambhi, isn't it?’ askedChanakya slyly, eyes
twinkling.
‘Yes, but it rankles me. Paurus and I are now equals before Alexander.
We're both his vassals. The title that I gained without spillingmy people's blood is the
same title that Paurus obtained after allowing
thousands of his people to be slaughtered. Yet, history will recordhim as the hero and
Ambhi as the coward!’ said a forlorn Ambhi.
Chanakya put on his best false smile and asked, ‘And what canChanakya do for you,
O King?’
‘I need your wise counsel, acharya. I need you by my side. I'maware that my former
commander-in-chief is helping train your anti-
Macedonian forces. I do not mind that. I know that you're trainingChandragupta to be
king of Magadha. I do not have any objection tothat either. I simply need your guidance
and wise counsel so that Ican make Gandhar economically and politically strong and
resilient,’
pleaded Ambhi.
‘And what would that involve?’ asked Chanakya cautiously.
‘I would like you to be my rajguru—royal advisor—and would likeyou to reside next to
my palace. I've built a marvellous official residence
for the rajguru. I want you and your disciples to move in there.
No expense will be spared and you'll be well looked after. Grace thishouse with your
august presence, O acharya. It will give me the advantage

of meeting you whenever I need your wise counsel!’ urgedAmbhi.
‘O King, I'm but a poor Brahmin. Of what use are palaces andmansions to me? I'll be
uncomfortable in such lavish surroundings!’
commented the man wrily, knowing full well that maintaining hispoverty cost him an
arm and a leg. Tears in his eyes, Ambhi prostrated
himself once again before Chanakya and pleaded, ‘Please,
acharya, do not let me wander through the political jungle all by myself.
Please be my guide. I shall not leave until you agree!’
‘Very well, O Ambhi. You're indeed persuasive. I accept, but onone condition,’ said
Chanakya.
‘And what's that?’ asked Ambhi looking up from his prostratedposition awkwardly. ‘If
the stars are not auspicious, you shall allowme to relinquish the position,’ stated the
Brahmin. Ambhi acquiescedand requested the new rajguru to visit his official residence
alongwith an architect so that his personal requirements could be met.
The villa built by Ambhi for Chanakya had bright and airy rooms,
high ceilings, polished stone floors, thick hardwood beams, and lotsof space. The
house was built around a splendid courtyard and waslocated on the banks of a
babbling brook. It had open gardens dotted
with wild flowers and fruit trees that sent wafts of scented breeze
through the doors and windows.
Chanakya was taking a tour of the premises along with Chandragupta,
Sinharan, Mehir and Sharangrao. His disciples were frustrated.
Why had their teacher allowed himself to be misled by the fancifulclaims of that rogue
Ambhi? How could he agree to ally himselfwith a scoundrel who had lent his very soul

to Alexander? As they wandered from one room to the next, being guided by the
architect,
the disciples could not help wondering what they were doing there.
For his part, Chanakya seemed a little too obsessed with the glamourof the mansion.
He was actually running his hands over the woodendoors and windows and lying down
on the floors to marvel at theexcellent finish wrought by the stonemasons! Tour over,
Chanakyathanked the architect profusely and announced that he would movein along
with his disciples the next day. They mounted the royalchariots sent by Ambhi and set
off for their ashram.
‘Acharya, what are you doing? We can't move in—’ beganChandragupta. Chanakya
silenced him with a gesture requesting thatthey maintain silence until it was safe to
discuss matters privately.
Back in the confines of Chanakya's simple hut, the ugly Brahminspoke. ‘Sinharan. I
need you to burn down that house tonight. But becareful, no one should know that it
was you.’
‘But why—’ began Sinharan.
Chandragupta interrupted him. ‘Acharya, you obviously have avery good reason for
what you want done. It shall be done. Butplease tell us why,’ he said.
‘Dear Chandragupta, I wasn't fooled by the false ingratiating toneof that snake Ambhi.
The rogue thinks that he can destroy me! Thefact is that he's uncomfortable having me
sitting inside his kingdomwith militia trained by his former commander-in-chief, and
enoughmoney-power to finance it!’ hissed Chanakya.
‘But why not simply refuse to be his rajguru? Don't shift residence.
Why burn the place down?’ asked Mehir.

‘Because the place is booby-trapped. You thought that I was admiring
the quality of the stonemasonry when I lay down on thefloor? I was actually observing
a row of ants carrying cooked ricethrough cracks in the floor. You assumed that I was
feeling thesmooth finish of the doors and windows, while I was busy studyingthe
lacquer!’ laughed the Brahmin, mighty pleased with the confusion
on their faces.
‘Need an explanation?’ he asked at length. Without waiting for ananswer he launched
into one. ‘If ants are observed carrying boiledrice through the floor cracks of an
uninhabited house, it must meanthat there is cooked food beneath the floor. Where
there are provisions,
there would be men. It was evident to me that the house had a
concealed basement filled with troops. They're quietly awaiting ourarrival and will strike
when we're asleep. In one fell swoop Ambhiwould have wiped us off the face of the
earth!’
Chandragupta was bewildered. ‘But why were you so interested inthe doors and
windows?’ he asked.
His teacher replied, ‘They were lacquered. Seeing that his answerhad not cleared their
confusion, he continued, ‘Lac
is a sticky secretion
of a tiny insect. The female insect, globular in form, lives ontwigs and young branches
in cells of resin created from its excretions.
Mostly one will find these insects in kusum trees. Collectingthe twigs along with the
living insects inside and extracting the secretions
using hot water creates resin dye. The dye is called lac
because lakhs—hundreds of thousands—of insects have to be gatheredto produce
just a single pound of the dye. When applied to doorsand windows, lac provides a

smooth finished look—something thatyou thought I was busy admiring! The problem
with lac, however,
is that it's highly inflammable. That house will go up in flames likea fireball if it were to
accidentally ignite. Probably that was Ambhi'sintent—to kill us using the soldiers in the
concealed basement andthen burn down the house attributing our deaths to an
accident. Sinharan,
that's why I want that house burned down with Ambhi's menpacked inside it! Tonight!’
Chanakya was back in Sage Dandayan's hermitage. The acharya hadrequested the
sage to let him stay at the ashram, and the venerablerishi had been delighted to have
some company. A few days later,
Ambhi dropped in to see him. ‘Ambhi, my son, the great fire thatenveloped the official
residence reserved for me a few days ago is a divine message that I should not be
your rajguru. My stars are notin favour and I would not like Gandhar's future to be
dragged downwith my own. I'm quite sure that you'll be able to find someone
muchmore capable than me,’ said Chanakya smoothly.
He waited for a reaction. He could sense the inner rage withinAmbhi but he did a fairly
good job of keeping it bottled in. ‘Oacharya, it's my loss. I hope that you'll continue to
stay in Takshilaso that I may take your advice from time to time,’ said Ambhi.
And eventually kil me, thought Chanakya. ‘Absolutely. I shall always
be available to assist you, O King. Please do not hesitate to callfor me,’ lied Chanakya.
As Ambhi left, Chandragupta asked ‘What now, acharya? Alexander's
forces are in retreat. Do we plan for making war?’ Chanakya
thought for a moment and answered with a roguish expression,
‘Leave the task of making war to me, Chandragupta. I need you tofocus on making
love!’

She was always dressed simply but elegantly—a creamcolouredsleeveless linen
chiton that reached her feet, light thong sandals, herlong blonde hair tied back with filet
mesh, and a delicate gold anddiamond tiara perched atop. She wore no jewellery other
than thetiara and simple earrings. The absence of royal trappings only servedto
accentuate her classic beauty and her unpretentious charm. Herskin was fair with a
light golden hue and the sleeveless chiton wasperfect to show off her delicate arms
and graceful shoulders. Hereyes were the colour of clear blue oceans, and like those
waters, randeep. Her slender face, full lips, aquiline nose and high cheekboneswere
the perfect combination of allure and innocence. Her name wasCornelia, and she was
the daughter of the second-most powerful manin Bharat—Seleucus.
The most powerful man, Alexander, was planning to return home,
leaving his trusted general—Seleucus—in charge of his Asian dominions.
Born in northern Macedonia, Seleucus had been told by his mother that his real father
was actually the god, Apollo. Apollo hadleft with her an anchor insignia ring to be given
to his son when hegrew up to be a man. The same anchor was also present as a
birthmark
on Seleucus’ thigh. ‘Go fight the Persians along with Alexanderand may you be called
Nicator—the
Victorious
One!’ she had said as
she gave him the ring.
He had not only been victorious in war but also in love. Havinghelped Alexander
conquer Persia, Seleucus had married Apama, theravishing daughter of a Persian
nobleman, in a grand marriage ceremony
at Susa, during which Alexander had also married the daughter
of the Persian king Darius III. Seleucus and Apama's passionateaffair earlier had
produced a bastard son. Their marriage a year laterproduced a legitimate daughter.

Cornelia was grateful that she wasborn on the right side of her parents’ marriage
ceremony.
Cornelia was staying in Takshila as a state guest of Ambhi. Thegirl was an Indophile
and found herself more comfortable in Gandhar
than in Greece. She would visit Sage Dandayan's ashram eachmorning to learn yoga.
A retinue of nervous Macedonian guards,
who knew that Seleucus would have their testicles ripped off if anything
untoward happened to her, would follow.
Seeing the great yogi leading an austere life she would ask Chanakya—
who was also living with Dandayan—‘Learned acharya, why isrenunciation so
important in Bharat? Sage Dandayan lives here inthe forest with no protection from
heat, cold or rain. He still seemsat peace, having renounced the very things that we
Macedoniansvalue—power and wealth.’
Chanakya laughed heartily, frightening the poor confused Cornelia
as he bared his crooked teeth. As his laughter subsided, he spoke.
‘Lord Rama renounced his kingdom and became the most powerfulking in the land.
Buddha renounced the world and the world fell athis feet. Cornelia, my innocent girl,
please do not believe that renunciation
is to forsake power. Rather, it's the very means to power!’
Chandragupta was walking briskly towards Dandayan's hut whenhe saw her
conversing with Chanakya. She
looks
like
a
goddess, he
thought to himself. He had been quite angry when his teacher had

told him that he wanted him to woo the girl. What was he, a gigolo?
Why had he spent his life training for kingship? Just to chase a Macedonian
girl in a gown? But now he was smitten. There could be noone lovelier than this
princess, he thought.
‘Ah! Chandragupta, I see that you have arrived,’ called out Chanakya,
deftly pulling Chandragupta into the conversation. ‘This is Cornelia,
the daughter of the honourable Seleucus. She's here to studyyoga from Sage
Dandayan. Unfortunately, her lessons keep gettinginterrupted by our profound
deliberations on the renunciation ofpower!’
Chandragupta strode confidently over to them. ‘Cornelia, my guruis not one who can
teach you about the renunciation of power, buthe can certainly teach you about the
power of renunciation!’ Chanakya
had helpfully prepared the witty one-liner for him in advance sothat Chandragupta
could make the right first impression.
Chandragupta was accoutred in his finest ensemble, some of ithastily borrowed from
Sinharan. A royal purple dhoti flowed fromhis waist, and he had thrown a blue silk wrap
casually around hisshoulders. Around his neck he wore a heavy necklace of pearls.
Hisgold earrings accentuated his sidelocks, defining his kind and gentleface, cleanshaven
except for his warrior moustache. Long black haircurled down to broad
shoulders that led to rippling muscular upperarms adorned with gold armlets. He
looked every inch a prince eventhough he had no kingdom.
Cornelia smiled. Chandragupta beamed. Chanakya chuckled. Heknew that the wheels
were in motion. Love conquered all. Hethought of Suvasini, his childhood flame, and
decided that the timehad come.

Chanakya wandered over to the elevated bamboo latticed lofts constructed
by his disciples in a clearing just outside Sage Dandayan'shermitage. As he
approached the raised enclosure, the soft chirpingand cooing of his winged charges
greeted him. Their trainer ran up
to the acharya and greeted him. ‘Are the pigeons in good form today,
Siddharthaka?’ asked Chanakya casually.
‘Absolutely, my lord. They have been fed and watered and areeagerly awaiting some
exercise,’ replied Siddharthaka, as he tookfrom the acharya a little capsule with a light
but firm string attachedto it. He opened one of the enormous coops using a rope that
hungdown from the gate and his call was immediately answered by abeautiful white
Rock Pigeon that flew over and perched itself onSiddharthaka's outstretched leatherencased
arm. The bird had made
journeys of more than a hundred and eleven yojanas at speeds exceeding
five yojanas per muhurta and could remain in sustainedflight for several muhurtas
without resting.
The critical element was training, and Siddharthaka was an accomplished
master in the science. Each bird would be transportedin a bamboo cage some
distance from home each day and released.
The birds would immediately fly back to their remembered home using
the earth's magnetic field as an inbuilt compass for navigation.
These birds were called ‘homing pigeons’ for a very precise reason—
their ability to fly back the way they'd been transported, no matter
what the distance. With each training trip, the distance would beincreased using a
network of trainers along the route, and each bird'sexperience, strength and ability to
navigate longer and longer distances
would increase. Siddharthaka's pigeons were extremely strongon the wing, able to fly
even against powerful countercurrents of air.

Each of his birds had keen eyesight, being able to see much furtherthan any normal
human. Despite their gentle demeanour, his birdspossessed incredible endurance and
were trained to withstand prolonged
aerial voyages.
Siddharthaka expertly tied the capsule proffered by Chanakya tothe bird's left leg and
whistled. With a strong flutter of its wings,
the bird rose straight up in the air, gained altitude and then, circlingaround a few times
to get its bearings, headed off directly in astraight line towards its destination—in this
case Pataliputra, whereJeevasiddhi awaited.

CHAPTER TEN
Present Day
T
T
he reporter had spent over a month in the malodorous cell. Hisbail applications kept
coming up before the sub-judicial districtmagistrate but were equal times denied
without even the courtesy of ahearing.
His hair was full of lice. His skin was red and blotchy from the insect
bites that plagued him every night. On his left ear was a surgicalbandage applied by
the prison doctor to a wound caused by a rat thathad nibbled on his ear. He had lost
several pounds and his cheeks hadsunken in. His face looked gaunt and tired, his
eyes lifeless. He wasdehydrated due to the diarrhoea caused by the terrible jail food.
Onseveral occasions he found cockroaches in the lentils. When he complained,
the warden had joked, ‘Sshh! Not so loud. If your cellmateshear you they'll want nonvegetarian
food too.’
The visit by a dark, oily-haired Keralite was curious. His mere presence
seemed to open doors and command respect. They sat acrossfrom each other in the
warden's office. Sugary tea had been arrangedfor them. The tea boy left two glasses
of the syrupy mixture beforethem and disappeared.
‘I can make all your problems disappear,’ said Menon.
‘Who are you?’ asked the prisoner.

‘It isn't important. You're a very intelligent man. You know whyyou've landed up here—
you've been very naughty!’ he admonished,
wagging his finger like a headmaster at an errant schoolboy.
‘That son of a whore—Gangasagar—wants me to back off, is it?
Leave his pure little Barbie doll untouched? Well, it seems that sheisn't all that virginal!’
he shouted, his red eyes blazing with indignation.
Menon stayed cool. ‘My friend, if you behave decently with me, Ishall deal even more
generously with you. Yes, you do need to backoff from the media hunt, but what if I
point you in the direction ofan even juicier story, eh?’
‘Go on. I'm listening,’ said the reporter disinterestedly but Menonknew that he had his
attention.
‘Did you know that the prime minister of this country has a veryclose advisor?’
‘You mean the general secretary of his party?’
‘No.’
‘The finance minister of India?’
‘No.’
‘The home minister of India?’
‘No.’
‘Then who?’

‘She apparently visits his residence every month. Her visits arekept off the record—no
notations are made either in the visitors’ logor in the prime minister's diary.’
‘He has a mistress?’
‘Use your grey cells, my intelligent friend. If he had a mistress,
would he bonk her at his official residence?’
‘Then who?’
‘She's simply known as the sadhvi. He apparently consults her on
all major decisions.’
‘And what is it that you want me to do?’
‘Get me leverage on her.’
‘My nose is like a bloodhound's—it can sniff out anything anywhere.
But why should I help you?’
‘You could be a free man in the next ten minutes. Think about how
good a long bath, a decent meal, a stiff drink and a warm woman inyour bed would
feel.’

‘Not good enough. You'll have to do better,’ growled the reporter,
negotiating but ready to lap up the offer as long as another bone wasthrown his way.
‘How about if I arrange the biggest sting operation of your life?’
suggested Menon calmly.
‘She has ambitions—’ he began.
‘Not interested in the future,’ said Menon.
‘The sadhvi visits him almost weekly—’ he said.
‘Not interested in the present,’ said Menon.
‘Then what the fuck are you interested in?’ asked the reporter.
‘Her past.’
‘We've hit the mother lode,’ the reporter said excitedly.
‘Do tell,’ said Menon coolly.
‘When our prime minister was chief minister, a lady used to visit
him. Often late at night.’
‘Big deal. If I laid end to end the women who screw around withbusinessmen or
politicians, we'd circle the fucking globe.’

‘If you laid them end to end you'd be very tired,’ joked the reporter.
Menon ignored the joke. The reporter cleared his throat and continued.
‘Well, it seems that this lady—very pretty she was apparently—
used to visit him, but one fine day she disappeared. Poof!
Gone.’
‘So?’
‘The same lady appeared at a Hindu shelter two months later,
pregnant.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘The orphanage accepted the pregnant lady on the formal recommendation
of the chief minister—our present prime minister.’
‘And did this lady deliver?’
‘Sure. A little girl.’
‘Whatever happened to the mother and daughter?’ asked Menon,
suddenly very interested.
‘The mother packed up and left. The daughter was brought up bythe Hindu nunnery
attached to the shelter.’
‘What's to say that the girl's got anything to do with the primeminister?’

‘In her hurry, the mother left behind a postcard. It was from thefather enquiring about
the mother and child. The purohit was happyto share it with me when I told him that I
could arrange for his son'sadmission to a medical college.’
Menon made a note. A favour promised was always to be honoured.
‘And?’
‘It was the prime minister. He's the father.’
‘So the sadhvi is his illegitimate daughter?’ asked Gangasagar incredulously.
‘He was already married, with three kids in tow and a rosy political
career ahead of him—he couldn't accept her,’ replied Menon.
‘But where's the proof?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘That weasel reporter has a postcard in which the prime ministerwrites to her asking
after her and the child.’
‘But that's hardly clinching evidence,’ said Gangasagar, then reflected
before thoughtfully resuming. ‘It could be enough for a sensation
though. And this child—she grew up to become a nun herself?’
‘Yes. Father and daughter never refer to one another as being related.
Apparently, she calls him child. A joke.’
‘And what the fuck does he call her—mother?’

‘Actually, yes.’
‘It's time I met her,’ said Gangasagar as he put down his newspaper.
‘What will you tell her?’ asked Menon.
‘I'll tell her that if she wants Mother's Rule in Delhi, she must make
sure that there's no damn President's Rule in Uttar Pradesh.’
‘Your instructions have arrived, child,’ she said as she placed herhand on his head and
began chanting some more prayers with hereyes closed. A minute later, she opened
her eyes and directed, ‘Donot impose President's Rule on Uttar Pradesh.’
‘But blessed mother—’ began the prime minister.
‘Sshh!’ she admonished him, placing her palm in front of her in agesture for him to halt.
‘Have my divine messages ever gone wrong?’
she asked.
‘No,’ he acknowledged quietly.
‘Then do as I say!’ she instructed.
‘Fine. So you've managed to bring things to a halt and preventedPresident's Rule. But
now what?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘We tell the chief minister to step down and let Chandini takeover,’ said Gangasagar.

‘But their party would want portfolios for supporting our chiefminister in the same way
that we demanded portfolios for supportingtheirs. Why would their chief minister step
down without a deal?’
asked Menon.
‘Changing the topic completely, Menon, weren't you supposed toorganise a sting for
that press worm?’ asked Gangasagar.
Menon smiled. ‘You want the chief minister to take a walk, don't
you?’ he asked. ‘So that you don't have to offer any Cabinet berths tohim?’
‘I like long walks—especially when they're taken by people whoannoy me,’ said
Gangasagar.
The gentleman from Mumbai was well-dressed, immaculate, suaveand soft-spoken.
He arrived in a black Mercedes-Benz at the residence
of the chief engineer of the PWD—the Public Works Department.
In one hand he carried a bunch of lilies for the chief engineer's wife,
and in the other he held a box of Swiss chocolates for his kids and
an expensive Mont Blanc pen for the man himself. The appointmenthad been fixed a
week earlier at the behest of the chief engineer'snephew.
Preliminary introductions over, the man from Mumbai said, ‘Thisis a massive project—
upgrading and widening priority state highways,
constructing four new bypasses, and three major bridges.
Who's picking up the tab?’
The chief engineer answered. ‘Civil work, supervision, projectmanagement support,
consulting contracts, land acquisition and cashcompensation shall be funded entirely

y the government of UttarPradesh, while other costs of resettlement and rehabilitation
will be
eligible for World Bank financing.’
‘So the entire cost is borne either by the state government or theWorld Bank, right?’
‘That is correct.’ replied the chief engineer.
‘We have carried out our own internal budgeting and believe thatthe actual cost should
be around one point five billion,’ said the manfrom Mumbai.
‘Ah!’
‘But we could inflate or deflate it, as required,’ added the Mumbaiman smoothly, ‘that's
why I'm here. We want to be sure that our bidsare submitted in the manner that you
want.’
‘You'll have to meet the principal secretary for that,’ said the chiefengineer.
‘When can we arrange a meeting?’ asked the man from Mumbai,
smiling.
The well-dressed, immaculate, suave and soft-spoken man from
Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-Benz at the Nirman Bhawan
office of the principal secretary in Lucknow. In one hand he carrieda bunch of tulips for
the principal secretary, and in the other he helda plain vanilla Mont Blanc pen for the
executive assistant to the principal
secretary. The appointment had been fixed two days earlier atthe behest of the chief
engineer.

‘As you know, the tender process can be handled in three
ways—percentage rate, item rate or lump sum. Under the first method,
we would do the costing and you would bid by quoting a percentage
above or below our estimates. In the second alternative, wewould give you a schedule
of quantities and you would quote individually
on each item. Under the third mechanism, you would quotea lump sum for the entire
project based upon our specifications,’ explained
the principal secretary.
‘How can you swing it so that we get it?’ asked the Mumbai man.
‘Do you have subsidiaries and affiliate companies?’ asked the principal
secretary.
The man nodded. ‘Lots.’
‘Then we'll do it this way. The prequalification bids will ask for
your background, technical expertise, and track record. Make surethat all your
subsidiaries and associates bid individually.’
‘How will that help?’
‘We will find qualitative reasons to eliminate other bidders at thisstage. But it would
look very strange if only one party were left uneliminated.
That's why we need you to have at least five to six prequalification
bids.’
‘So we'll be the only bidders by the time it gets down to commercial
bids?’

‘Yes.’
‘And how much will this cost us?’
‘You'll have to meet the chief minister for that,’ said the principal
secretary.
‘When can we arrange a meeting?’ smiled the man from Mumbai.
The well-dressed man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-
Benz at 5, Kalidas Marg, the official residence of the chief ministerof Uttar Pradesh. In
one hand he carried a bunch of orchids for the
chief minister, and in the other he carried a ten-tola—a hundred-andsixteengramme
gold bar—for the personal assistant to the chief minister.
The appointment had been fixed a few hours earlier at the behest
of the principal secretary.
‘I'm told you've already discussed the details with the principalsecretary,’ said the chief
minister, shaking his hand.
‘Yes. I have come here only to seek your blessings.’
‘My blessings are expensive.’
‘How expensive?’
‘Fifteen per cent.’
‘Cancel one blessing and give me two.’

‘Ten per cent?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would not do that under normal circumstances. But then, youbrought me orchids,’
laughed the chief minister, getting up to sealthe deal with the smiling man from
Mumbai.
The well-dressed man from Mumbai arrived in his black Mercedes-
Benz at the Birhana Road residence of Pandit Gangasagar Mishra. Inone hand he
carried a roll of photographic film and in the other hecarried a small pocket-recording
device with the tape still inside it.
Menon smiled as he took his reporter friend inside to meet PanditGangasagar Mishra.
‘With this scoop, you shall graduate from weasel to eagle,’ saidMenon to the journalist
as they walked towards Gangasagar's living
room.
‘I would rather remain a weasel,’ said the reporter.
‘Why?’ asked Menon.
‘Eagles may soar but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines!’
On the dusty Birhana Road of Kanpur, inside one of its bylanes, in abuilding that had
seen better days, the rickety staircase to the secondfloor flat occupied by Pandit
Gangasagar Mishra was groaning underthe weight of hundreds of feet. It was 11 am
and Chandini Gupta hadarrived at Panditji's residence. Accompanying her were MLAs
fromthe Opposition who were willing to defect.

The sting operation had forced the chief minister to reconsiderwhether he should hang
on to his chair. Good counsel had prevailedand he had resigned. ‘You're happy that
he's gone?’ enquired theweary Menon.
‘My dear Menon, some cause happiness wherever they go. Otherswhenever they go.’
‘Pranam, Uncle Ganga,’ said Chandini, as she folded her hands inrespectful obeisance
to the kingmaker. ‘God bless you, my dear,’ saidthe old man as she sat down on the
chair next to him. He pausedfor a moment as he placed a hand on her head, closed
his eyes andchanted something under his breath. ‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab
Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini MataShakti; Mata
Shakti, Namo Namah.’
‘Are you ready to go to Governor House to stake your claim toform the state
government?’ he asked as he opened his eyes.
She nodded, smiling. ‘The chief minister's MLAs are outside.
They've agreed to support us without any cabinet positions—theydidn't have much of a
choice,’ she laughed.
‘Your first task as chief minister—’ he began.
‘Yes?’

‘Award the World Bank contract to a nominee of Agrawalji'schoosing, but make sure
that there are no open microphones! He haspulled out all his remaining hair financing
these elections. He needssomething to calm him down.’
The Uttar Pradesh chief minister's office was on the fifth floor of Lal
Bahadur Shastri Bhawan in Lucknow. The reception area was extralarge—in
anticipation of the large number of waiting visitors. Twosecretaries were stationed in
the reception area, assigned with thesingle task of managing the crowd.
The inner office was smaller than the reception but much moreimposing. The room
was wood-panelled, dominated by an oversizedmahogany desk behind which was an
imposing swivel chair done upin aged maroon leather—the most powerful chair in the
state. On thewall behind the desk was a large portrait of Mahatma Gandhi. Thevisitors’
chairs, also in maroon, were lower and smaller, instantlyputting any guest in a slightly
subordinate position. To the right ofthe desk was a large window with a cabinet below
it polished to amirror. Chandini noticed the vase of pink chrysanthemums on
thecabinet as she walked into her new office.
‘Good morning, ma'am,’ said her assistant, a pleasant young man.
‘I'm your principal private secretary—your executive assistant. Myname's Shankar.’
‘Did you organise the pink chrysanthemums, Shankar?’ askedChandini.
‘Yes,’ said the slightly embarrassed young man, ‘I do hope you likethem.’
‘How did you know pink chrysanthemums were my favourite?’
asked Chandini.
‘Ma'am, I'm your secretary—it's my job to know your preferences,’

he quipped. ‘Shall we go through your diary?’
The stream of visitors, phone calls, letters, meetings and files hadbeen endless. It was
past 5 pm and Chandini had not been able toleave her desk, even for lunch.
‘Send in the delegation from the builders’ federation,’ she instructed
Shankar on the intercom. A minute later, he walked in carrying atray. ‘Where are they?’
she asked, not looking up from the file beforeher. Her secretary put the tray down in
front of her with a look ofconcern and said, ‘Ma'am it's been a long day. I asked them
to reschedule.
I think you should take a break.’ Chandini looked up at himrealising he was right—she
was famished. She smiled when she noticed
her favourite sweet cardamom tea and tangy peanuts in limejuice on the tray.
‘Have you begun to gain her confidence?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘With the background information that you gave me, it was rathereasy,’ admitted
Shankar. ‘She depends on me for almost everything.’
‘Good. Keep me informed of her activities. She's a single woman ina male-dominated
society. I can't afford to have any malicious gossipabout male friends—real or
imagined!’ growled Gangasagar.
‘It seems that there's trouble brewing already,’ said Menon.
‘What? She's been chief minister for barely a few weeks,’ said Gangasagar.
‘There's a rebellion in the ranks. Our dear Ram Shankar Dwivedi

is spearheading the effort. There have been secret meetings and parleys.’
‘Ask Ikrambhai to meet me. This situation needs his brand of assistance,’
said Gangasagar.
Entire families crowded every available inch of space. A cow sat nonchalantly
chewing cud in the centre of the railway platform, as aman, with wife, three children—
including a newborn baby—motherinlaw
and chickens in tow, attempted to create floor space fortheir luggage. Flies and
mosquitoes buzzed around, excited by theabundance of garbage piled up on the
tracks. Young boys employedby the prosperous tea stall-owner ran up and down the
platformyelling, ‘Chai,
garam
chai!’ and serving hot, sugary, milky tea inlittle glasses. Other vendors—selling cheap
plastic toys, newspapers,
fruit, deep-fried samosas, toothbrushes, herbal remedies, and evenbaby clothes—
harangued those waiting on the platform for the muchawaited train. Eventually, the
shrieking and puffing iron monster arrived,
causing everyone to go into general hysteria as the passengerswaged the inevitable
battle to board.
Ikrambhai's man was not waiting to board, though. He was awaiting
the arrival of a very special lady who was to be whisked off tothe Durbar Club.
At the Durbar Club opposite the Lucknow railway station, the ambient
temperature was almost ten degrees below. The smell of freshjasmine flowers
pervaded the air. The interior décor was of darkwood and deep-red velvet. In the

centre of the room was a dance floor where, some fifteen young girls clad in
extravagant lehengasgyrated to popular Bollywood songs. Around the perimeter sat
lecherous
men drinking whisky. Smitten patrons showered notes on girlswho caught their fancy,
drowning them in a cascade of crisp currency.
The cash would be efficiently mopped up from the floor by thewaiter on hand. Fifty per
cent for the establishment, fifty per cent forthe girl being fêted.
Eesha was lost in her own world—shutting out the leers of themen inside the club—
allowing herself to get immersed in the music.
Her penchant for jewellery was evident in the glittering bangles,
chains, earrings and nose ring that adorned her. Her make-up hadbeen professionally
applied but was not overdone. She was justtwenty-one and oozing sex appeal. She
had been dancing for the pastthree hours but wasn't tired. The spliff of cannabis had
taken care ofthat. The train journey had been long but drugs had been on hand
toremove the fatigue and boredom. Thank God she needed to be hereonly for this
single assignment. The city was a dump!
One of the men seated near where she was dancing had alreadysprayed her with cash
and winked at her, indicating that he wasready to pay for some one-on-one action
outside. She smiled at him,
sizing him up. He was obviously loaded. She glanced over at the barwhere Ikram's
man was standing, sipping a Coke. He nodded at her.
The prey had taken the bait.
As they made their way to one of the seedy little rooms upstairs,
Ram Shankar Dwivedi stared at her lustfully, like a dog with histongue hanging out for
a bone. Eesha would give him the bone hewanted, although, judging by the bulge in
his trousers he seemed tohave one of his own.

The room was a small windowless twelve-by-twelve-foot number.
Towards the centre of the main wall stood a queensize bed, drapedin a floral
bedspread that bore patches and stains that could not beattributed to the pattern
alone. To one corner was a single chair thatfaced a mirror—an oddity in this crummy
room. Mercifully, an air-conditioner installed in lieu of a window was working and the
roomwas cool.
‘So shall I tell you what's on the menu?’ Eesha asked as she saton the edge of the bed
and patted the space next to her. He noddedmutely, intoxicated by her blandishments.
‘BBBJ, BDSM, Bareback, GFE, DT, HJ—’
‘I don't understand any of this—’ he began.
‘Hush. You don't need to. I'll show you everything,’ she said as shebegan to help him
off with his clothes.
The photographer arranged by Ikram's man stood in a dark roombehind the two-way
mirror on the other side of the bedroom wall.
He had set his camera to manual mode and the shutter to thirtyseconds. The
photographer's finger was firmly frozen on the buttonof the camera, mounted on a
tripod. The shutter kept clicking andwhirring over and over again as Ram Shankar
Dwivedi chose itemsfrom Eesha's extensive menu.
‘The road contract we handed over to Agrawalji's nominee—’ beganChandini.
‘Yes?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘His nominee turned out to be Rungta & Somany, the conglomerate,
you know, the one with whom we negotiated on the farmers’land.’

‘Somany was also the one who supported us by sending that Bollywood
bimbo—Anjali—to campaign for you,’ reminded Gangasagar.
‘Precisely,’ acknowledged Chandini, ‘but we now have a problem’.
‘What?’
‘The R&S fortune is in dispute. The World Bank project was allotted
to a private company belonging to the senior partner, Rungta.’
‘And?’
‘The junior partner—Somany—is now claiming that it should havebeen allotted in the
name of the parent company in which he holdsan equal share.’
‘How does this concern us? I'm sure you floated an open tenderfollowing all the
apparent
norms of transparency and fairness, right?’
asked her devious mentor.
‘Obviously. But now Somany has threatened to go to court. If hedoes, the resulting
attack on Rungta will drag the state governmentinto this mess.’
‘We can't afford to antagonise either one of them. Let's schedule ameeting with
Somany to talk some sense into him.’
‘You don't need to schedule a meeting.’
‘Why?’

‘He's waiting outside to meet us.’
‘I have been cheated of what should have rightfully belonged to bothpartners fifty-fifty.
How can you allow this injustice?’ asked Somanyas he strode in dispensing with all
formalities.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ said Gangasagar saracastically.
‘Madam, I beseech you. Remedy this mistake and I will not dragthis issue to court,’
pleaded Somany of Chandini.
‘How can we get involved in a squabble between partners?’ askedChandini.
‘You have no alternative. If this dispute goes to court, all the sordid
details of how the contract was awarded are bound to spill intothe public domain,’ said
Somany.
‘Are you threatening the state government of Uttar Pradesh andits chief minister?’
asked Chandini angrily.
‘I am not, madam, but I shall be left with no option but to washdirty linen in public if you
do nothing,’ said Somany.
‘Then be prepared for the entire might of the state government tocome down on you!
You should not defaecate where you dine, MrSomany!’ snapped Chandini, her voice
rising.

‘Now, now, let us not argue with one another. We're all decentfolk who are gathered
here to arrive at a mutually amicable solution,
right?’ asked Gangasagar, gesturing for Chandini to calm down.
‘Changing the topic completely, am I correct in believing that youhave a personal stake
in Majestic Munitions PLC, Mr Somany?’
‘H—how do you know that?’ asked the startled scion of a businesshouse.
‘It's my job to know everything,’ said Gangasagar. ‘As I understandit, a large chunk of
shares in Majestic Munitions PLC—a companyquoted on the London Stock
Exchange—was acquired by a Dubaibased
investment bank in which—or so my sources tell me—youhave a substantial stake.’
‘Let's say that you're hypothetically right, so what?’ asked theflustered businessman.
‘Talking hypothetically, how would you react if I told you thatyour hypothetical stake in
this hypothetical investment bank thatholds a hypothetical share in this hypothetical
armaments companycould be multiplied six times over in value?’
‘How?’
‘Are we still talking hypothetically?’ sneered Gangasagar. ‘I amgiven to understand that
a large order for semi-automatic rifles is tobe released to Majestic Munitions but the file
is held up in the primeminister's office. If this proposal were to be cleared, the value of
your
stake in Majestic would increase in value almost six times.’
‘But we've tried everything—’ began Somany.

‘Leave it to me. You shall only have to do six things to get your
six-fold return.’
‘And what are these six things?’
‘The first thing you will do is allot two per cent of the shares to acharitable trust. It
belongs to a simple sadhvi—a lovely lady.’ Whom
I also need to reward for preventing President's Rule.
‘Done. What else?’
‘Second. Sell the shares of Majestic and book your profit no soonerthan the deal is
awarded. I cannot guarantee what happens in the future.’
‘Fine. And?’
‘Third. There's a young boy from a very poor family. He's the sonof the purohit of a
Hindu shelter. You shall have him admitted to amedical college that you're a trustee
of.’ A
debt
must
always
be
repaid
entirely.
‘Easily done. Fourth?’
‘Your friend in New Delhi—the defence minister who is lobbyingfor your Majestic
Munitions deal—make him available to me as an

ally when I need him in the future.’
‘I shall talk to him. Fifth?’
‘Majestic Munitions has a stake in Strategic Asia Research De-
fence—SARD—an American think-tank on Asian military matters. Imay require a word
put in.’
‘Fine. And finally?’
‘Drop the case against your partner—Rungta—so that we can allfucking get on with
the fucking business of running this fucking government!
And I'm not speaking hypothetically anymore!’
‘Thank you for handling Somany,’ said Chandini.
‘You're welcome. I'm happy that you followed my advice and
yelled at him,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Why did you ask me to be so tough?’
‘If there's no bad cop, how's the good cop to get his work done?’
asked Gangasagar.
The chief minister was on her way to inaugurate a primary schoolin Nutpurwa, a small
village about a hundred kilometres from Luc know. They were to have left Lucknow at
1 pm but meeting overrunshad delayed them by a couple of hours. Shankar had

suggested cancelling the visit but Chandini was determined to go even though thestate
government's helicopter was out of service. Meetings with businessmen
and bureaucrats were urgent but not as important as meetings
with humble villagers and children for whom a simple schoolmeant the world.
Winter had arrived and sunset kicked in early. She sat in the rearseat of her official
Ambassador car wearing her trademark cream-coloured
saree with an elegant beige pashmina shawl wrapped aroundher shoulders. Shankar
sat next to her, helping her clear the backlogof files they carried with them. Ahead of
their car were two
motorbike-mounted pilot policemen and behind them was a policejeep carrying the
chief minister's bodyguards. The road between Lucknow
and Nutpurwa was bumpy and dusty and the convoy madeprogress in fits and starts.
As dusk approached, the convoy paused momentarily to allowa herd of buffalo to cross
the road. The lumbering beasts tooktheir own time, ignoring the impatient honking of
Chandini's policedeputed
driver. The herd was extensive and the occupants of thechief minister's car
suddenly found themselves surrounded by hundreds
of buffalo. Five minutes later, when the animals had moved
on, neither the police jeep nor the bikemounted cops were anywhereto be seen.
As the dust kicked up by the animals settled, three riders emergedon horseback and
within moments the chief minister's car was surrounded.
One of the riders steered his steed towards the driver's window,
pointed his .303 calibre rifle at the driver's head and shot himdead through the glass
which shattered into tiny splinters. ‘It's Rajjo
Bhaiya,’ whispered Shankar to Chandini. ‘He'll kill us if we don'tmake a run for it’.
Chandini was paralysed with fear. Her pale complexion

had turned snow-white as she nodded mutely in response toShankar's words. Another
rider used his rifle butt to smash open thecar window on Shankar's side and was now
pointing his rifle at him. ‘That son of a whore, Gangasagar, thought he could play
politicswith me, eh? Instal his pretty girl on the throne and rule by proxy?
He fucked me, now I'm going to fuck his pretty little lady and haveme some fun. Boys,
are you ready for some group action?’ laughedRajjo Bhaiya, and his men laughed with
him—evil and menacingcackles.
Both Chandini and Shankar stayed seated, their windows
shattered into shards that lay all over the seats and floor. Two .303barrels pointed at
them from each side. Rajjo's men were in no hurryto get them out of the car. Having
eliminated the bodyguards inthe rear, the bike riders in the front, and the driver, they
knew thatChandini and Shankar were helpless prey.
‘At the count of three,’ whispered Shankar to Chandini as he gestured
for her to pick up a dagger-shaped shard of glass that laynear her hand. He was
already holding one—the blood from hispalm dripping on the seat. ‘One—two—three—
’ he whispered and,
in unison, both Chandini and Shankar thrust out their hands wildly,
stabbing the two horses that stood on either side of their car.
The stallions went wild, whinnying and neighing as they buckedand reared.
‘Motherfucker!’ shouted Rajjo Bhaiya in disgust as heand his accomplices
concentrated their attentions on bringing theirmounts under control. The rifle barrels
were withdrawn momentarilyfrom the car's interior. ‘Now!’ hissed Shankar as he pulled
open hisdoor and dragged Chandini out with him. He knew that the buckingsteeds had
bought them less than a minute.
As they stumbled out, Shankar took another stab at the horse nextto him and the
animal went berserk. Shankar grabbed hold of thegun that fell to the ground, picked it

up, aimed for the thug's headand fired. He wasn't sure what he was doing but his mind
and bodywere on autopilot. He realised that he had killed a man only whenthe
horseman's lifeless body fell from his horse, one foot still in thestirrup. The horse went
into a crazed gallop, dragging the corpsewith it into the dusty horizon.
Falling to his hands and knees, Shankar pulled Chandini downwith him and they
crawled under the car. He silently thanked the Government of India, which continued to
insist that all officials and
ministers use an Ambassador car for their official duties. Based on
the Morris Oxford III of 1956, the Ambassador had changed littleover the years and
had the highest ground clearance among passenger
cars, making it easy to slip underneath it. ‘Why the fuck don'tyou come out and fight
like a man, cuntface?’ yelled Rajjo Bhaiya.
‘In the same macho way that you held us at gunpoint?’ tauntedShankar. He could see
the horses’ hooves and knew that they neededto act before Rajjo Bhaiya dismounted.
He pulled Chandini close tohim and gave her hand a brief squeeze, to comfort and
reassure herthat they would get out of the mess alive. He pointed his gun towards
the space underneath the left side rear door and hastily toldChandini to fire a few
shots, being careful to avoid the tyres. His aimwas to distract Rajjo and his remaining
accomplice while he crawledout below the front right door—the door to the driver's
seat.
Chandini's shots had brought both horsemen to the rear left ofthe car and in that
instant, Shankar yanked open the door, wildlydragged out the driver's body, and pulled
the policeman's IOFB MarkI revolver from his holster. Standing up he aimed his
revolver at Rajjo
Bhaiya—whose attention was still focused on the shots from therear left—and fired.
Rajjo Bhaiya dropped his rifle and clutched hisheart from which blood was spurting. He

had a dazed expression onhis face before the second shot caught him between the
eyes.
The third horseman, realising that his master was dead, steeredhis horse away from
the car and galloped away into the surroundinghills. Shankar crawled underneath the
car once again, and held onto Chandini who was still attempting to fire the rifle
mechanicallyalthough it had run out of ammunition. She was trembling as sheclutched
the gun. He reached out and gently unclasped her hand thathad been wrapped like a
vice around the trigger. He offered her hisother hand and nudged her out from the
under the car. Putting hisarm around her, he sat her in the front passenger's seat and
then,
running around to the other side, got into the driver's seat, startedthe ignition, shifted
the gear from neutral and put his foot on the gas.
He did not lift his foot from the accelerator until they reached thegovernment circuit
house on the outskirts of Nutpurwa.
It was past 10 pm when they arrived at the circuit house, a smalltwo-bedroom
bungalow constructed by the district collector. Thecaretaker—a gentle, toothless old
man—came out running whenhe noticed the car with the chief ministerial numberplate.
‘Whathappened?’ he asked with anxiety, as he saw Shankar emerge fromthe car, his
clothes bloodied and soiled. ‘There was an attack on the
chief minister. I need you to help me get her inside—she's in shock,’
explained Shankar.
The two men helped Chandini out of the car, and placing her armsaround their
shoulders helped her up the circuit house steps and intoone of the rooms. By
standards of government accommodation, thehouse was surprisingly well-maintained.
Shankar allowed Chandinito slump onto the bed and then, turning to the caretaker

said, ‘Pleasemake us some tea. And do you have a sedative? After that, I'll needto use
the phone.’
The worried caretaker nodded and headed off to get the tea andsedative but his
trailing voice said, ‘The phone line's been dead sincethis morning, sir. The only other
phone's five miles away!’
Shankar propped up Chandini against a couple of pillows, sat beside
her on the bed, and forced her to take a few sips of the hot, sugary
brew that the caretaker brought them. He then made her swallowthe tranquilliser. ‘I'm
not comfortable driving you back to Lucknowin this state,’ he told her gently. ‘Ideally,
I'd like a police escort. Ifyou're hungry I'll drive down to the village and get something to
eat.’
She shook her head. ‘I'm not hungry. Let's leave in the morning—
by then the control room in Lucknow will have realised thatthey need to send a team
here.’
‘Fine. I'll tell the caretaker to stay awake and sit near the frontporch. I'm in the room
next door—’ he began, as he got up.
‘Shankar,’ said Chandini holding on to his hand and looking directly
into his eyes, ‘don't leave me. Please stay.’ It was a simple requestloaded with
meaning and he found himself falling in love with thetragically beautiful and vulnerable
woman.
‘You were supposed to watch over her, not bloody sleep with her!’
roared Gangasagar. The attack on the chief minister's convoy hadbeen all over the
news and they had been brought back to the safetyof Lucknow under armed escort in
the morning. Shankar had bathed,

hurriedly grabbed a bite to eat and rushed over to meet Gangasagar.
There was no point in keeping any secrets from the old man—hewould find out
anyway.
Shankar's mind was whirling. He was a mess. ‘I never meant for itto happen. It was
just so sudden. She needed me and—’
‘—and you obliged by performing gymnastics with her in bed?’
shouted Gangasagar.
‘It wasn't like that at all. It was an intense, emotional, momentary—’
began Shankar.
‘Please! Spare me the details!’ said Gangasagar as he strode up anddown his living
room, hands clasped behind his back.
‘I—I—I think that I'm in l—love with her,’ stammered Shankar. ‘I
don't know if I can really do what you want me to. How do I watchand report on a w—
w—woman that I have fallen for?’
Gangasagar smiled. It was a gentle, reassuring smile. He walkedup to the chair that
Shankar was sitting on, placed a hand affectionately
on the young man's shoulder and said, ‘You're brave and honest,
Shankar. I'm proud of you for telling me the truth.’
Shankar heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I suggest that you go home andget some rest. We'll
talk about how to pull you out of this assignmenta couple of days later.’
Shankar fell to Gangasagar's feet and touched them. ‘I am gratefulto you for
everything that you have done for me—including gettingme the secretaryship. You're
my mentor, sir, and I'm ever grateful.’

‘Cheer up, Shankar. Love's not such a bad thing, after all,’
chuckled Gangasagar. ‘Without it, neither you nor I would have beenborn!’
Shankar awoke early, shaved, bathed and dressed. His small bachelor's
flat smelt of coffee, a daily indulgence that required grindingfresh beans and brewing
them. Ignoring the freshly-brewed coffee,
he grabbed his briefcase, ran down the stairs and headed over tothe bus stop. There
was a spring in his step as he thought about hisphone conversation the previous night
with Chandini.
‘I don't know how to thank you,’ she said.
‘Hush! You know that no thanks are needed,’ he admonished.
‘I know. Listen, about what happened between us—’
‘Yes?’
‘I don't know how to say this. If it was just casual for you, I'll understand—’
‘What are you talking about? Casual? I—’
‘I'm glad it meant something to you. I want you to know that it
still means a lot to me.’
I think I'm falling in love with you,’ he said.
‘That makes the two of us,’ she said simply.
Shankar had reached the bus stop that lay across the street.
He looked to his right and left before crossing the street. Withoutwarning, the Tata
truck wheeled up, the driver having apparentlylost control of his vehicle. The massive
twenty-five-tonne monstersmashed into Shankar, crushing his bones into dusty death.
Shankar'smangled body lay in a mess of blood and pulpy gore as the truckdriver
looked in his rearview mirror and drove on.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
About 2300 years ago
‘I love you,’ said Suvasini, Chanakya's childhood crush, to Rakshas,
Magadha's prime minister, as she kneaded his neck and
shoulders.
Suvasini was the ideal spark that could set off a conflagration inMagadha, Chanakya
had decided. For one thing, she was sexy. For another,
she loved playing games. In Magadha's political landscape, carnal
desires were paramount drivers of the key protagonists—the lustful
king Dhanananda and his lecherous prime minister Rakshas.
Suvasini had a dusky quality to her skin, which made her mysterious
and desirable. She could not be called beautiful in the traditional
sense, but there was a particular quality in her that simply set the fertile
imagination of any testosterone-bearing man into overdrive. Shehad curves in all the
right places and this, combined with her tawnycomplexion, full lips, deep back eyes
and thick black hair made herlook tangy, saucy and sensual.
‘I love you,’ said Suvasini to Rakshas, ‘but the king has put me in avery delicate
position, darling. He wants me to become his queen.’
She felt the muscles in Rakshas’ neck go taut as he stiffened. ‘Is thatwhat you also
want?’ he asked cautiously.
She put her arms around his neck, leaned forward and whisperedinto his ear, ‘You
know what happens when you and I are in bed together.

Do you really think he'd be able to satisfy me?’
‘But once he has his eyes on a woman, he gets her at any cost. Noone can argue with
him—he's the goddamn king! How are we goingto handle it?’ demanded Rakshas, his
face flushed from her breathinginto his ear.
‘I shall be clear with him. If it means my head, so be it,’ said Suvasini.
‘My worry is that it isn't your head that he's after,’ mused Rakshas.
‘I love you,’ said Suvasini to Dhanananda as she gently ran her fingers
through the king's hair as he rested his head on her lap, ‘butyour prime minister has
put me in a very delicate position, sweetheart.
He wants me to be his wife.’ She felt his temples throb.
‘What is it that Rakshas can give you that I—emperor of
Magadha—cannot?’ he thundered.
She lowered her fingers to his chest and playfully traced light circular
patterns around his nipples, lowered her own face into his andwhispered, ‘You know
how I love what we have between us. You alsoknow that I really don't care for your
power or wealth. I simply adore
you, my lord.’
‘What I like about you, Suvasini, is that you can be a caring mother
in the morning, a doting sister in the afternoon, and a whore atnight!’ he coarsely
muttered. She shuddered inwardly and closed hereyes. Why had Vishnugupta asked
her to create this dangerous triangle?
‘I shall be clear with him. If it breaks his heart, so be it,’ said
uvasini.
‘It isn't his heart that will break but something much lower down,’ laughed
Dhanananda.

It was the last muhurta before midnight and the palace was quietat this hour. Inside the
council chamber, Dhanananda was having ameeting with his prime minister, Rakshas.
Several torches were blazing,
held by clamps along the pillars, and the room was full of dancing
shadows.
‘Go meet Alexander as my emissary, Rakshas. Meet him before heleaves for Persia
and tell him that Dhanananda would like to be his friend and that Magadha would like
to welcome him as an honouredguest,’ said Dhanananda.
‘Maharaj, it's a long journey to Gandhar. Are you sure it's worthwhile?
Who will help you run the administration while I'm away?’
asked Rakshas.
‘I shall miss you, my friend. But I cannot entrust this sensitive mission
to anyone else. We can't afford to have Alexander being friendswith Ambhi and
Paurus, but not with Dhanananda. What if they allgang up against me?’ asked
Dhanananda.
‘I shall need an armed contingent to accompany me—most of ourneighbouring
kingdoms are in tumult,’ requested Rakshas. ‘Also, if Iam to be your ambassador of
goodwill to Alexander, I shall need tocarry precious gifts.’
‘Absolutely. Please arrange it, Rakshas. I'm confident that youshall be successful in
your endeavour. And don't worry about yourloved ones. Dhanananda shall keep them
close so that they shallwant for nothing,’ said Dhanananda foxily.
I'm
sure

you
shall,
you
bastard, thought Rakshas to himself as he
bowed before the king.
At a decrepit temple in the city, the sultry Suvasini was meeting yetanother man
surreptitiously. His name was Jeevasiddhi, the lieutenant
of Katyayanji who had saved Chanakya from an attacking tiger.
He was now also Chanakya's trusted agent in Pataliputra.
The forsaken temple had stood in solitude for several generations,
the colossal pillars crumbled and lying around in heaps of rubble.
Years of looting and neglect had robbed, pilfered or destroyed anything
of value. In the night of a full moon, the ruins were bathed incool silvery light and the
broken and jagged temple ruins seemed likea lunar landscape. The flaming torch
being carried by Jeevasiddhiwas not really required. The forbidding temple had been
out of usefor several generations owing to a curse by an enraged sage who had
been prevented from sleeping in the temple premises by the localpriests.
‘You have something for me?’ asked Jeevasiddhi. She nodded asshe handed over two
silken pouches to him. One contained a ringwith the royal insignia of Dhanananda. The
other contained a ringthat had been given to Rakshas by his father and bore his family
crest.
‘I hope Vishnugupta rots in hell,’ she said angrily to Jeevasiddhi.
‘He has made me whore myself to achieve his own political ambitions.’
‘There's always a greater purpose to everything we do, Suvasiniji,’
said Jeevasiddhi. ‘Acharya Chanakaya has asked me to read out thismessage to you
and destroy the parchment afterwards.’

‘What? A message from Vishnu? Why didn't you say so earlier?
Tell me what it says,’ urged Suvasini. Jeevasiddhi took out a smallscroll from his
waistband, unfurled it and began to read.
‘My dear Suvasini. It's no secret that I've always loved you. ButI've been pragmatic
enough to bear in mind that you were alwaysbeyond my reach. You have been my one
and only true love, but inmy present world of power politics—to secure the unity and
security
of Bharat—I know there's no place for any woman in my life. Ihave taken the vows of
Brahmacharya—celibacy— till such time asI achieve my dream of uniting a strong
Bharat. Who knows, by thattime I may be so old that the expiration of my vow may be
of no consequence!
I'm grateful for what you've done for me—it was a difficultdecision to ask you to do it. I
need you to remember that you've doneit for a noble reason and I promise not to
forget. Chanakya thanksyou and Vishnugupta loves you. God bless you.’
Her eyes turned moist as she heard the words but before shecould ask him to read it
aloud to her again, Jeevasiddhi placedthe scroll in the mouth of the flaming torch and
held it till itwas completely ablaze. ‘Good night, Suvasiniji,’ said Jeevasiddhias he
turned around and hurried away into the dark night, historch leaving a trail of smoke
behind him. Suvasini shuddered. She so wanted Chanakya to succeed. She began
praying to Shiva togrant him victory. ‘Om
tryambhakam
yajamahe,
sugandhim
pushtivardhanam;
urvarukamiva
bandhanam,
mrityor
mukshiya

maamrital,’ she
chanted. It was an ancient mantra from the Rigveda and meant ‘O
praise
to
the
Three-Eyed
One,
who
increases
prosperity,
who
has
a
sweetfragrance,
who
frees
the
world
from
all
diseases
and
death!
Liberate—asthe
fruit
from
the
wine.
Shiva,
grant

immortality!’ Suvasini would find
herself repeating the mantra many thousands of times for her beloved
Vishnugupta as future events played out in Magadha.
The spymaster standing before Dhanananda was nervous. How hadhe allowed himself
to be suckered into this double game, hewondered. He anxiously adjusted his wrap as
he waited for
Dhanananda to finish reading the note that had purportedly beenseized from a
messenger leaving Rakshas's camp and heading out toKaikey. The expression on
Dhanananda's face was one of seethingwrath. His lips seemed to be mouthing the
words written on thescroll in order to convince himself that they were real.
‘O great King Paurus. Magadha's prime minister, Rakshas, sendsgreetings. I am on
my way to your land. I come in my personal capacity,
not as a senior functionary of the Magadha government. I haveheard wonderful stories
of your bravery, wisdom, and honour. If youdeem fit, I would like to discuss an alliance
between us that could be
to our mutual advantage. It would allow me to grow in stature whileexpanding your
borders significantly. It is critical, however, that thisconversation remains confidential. I
look forward to receiving yourinvitation for a meeting at the soonest. Your humble
servant, Rakshas.’
‘How do we know that the letter is genuine?’ asked Dhanananda,
hoping that it would turn out to be a forgery.
‘There can be no doubting the authenticity, my lord,’ said the spy-
master. He stepped forward and handed over Rakshas's ring. ‘This

was enclosed in the scroll to prove his credentials to the king ofKaikey.’
‘That traitorous fiend!’ Dhanananda screamed. ‘I want the scoundrel
captured and brought back here to stand trial. He betrayed mytrust and friendship. I
made him the most powerful official in thekingdom and this is how he repays me. The
ungrateful wretch! Evenif it means sending the army to get him, do it!’ he ordered.
‘My dearest Suvasini. I have succeeded in my efforts to get Rakshasout of Magadha.
With him gone for several months, there's now noobstacle to our sweet union. I long to
kiss you and hold you inmy arms. Do not have any fear. Rakshas shall not return from
histrip. My men have orders to kill him before he returns to Magadha.
What are you waiting for? Come quickly. Your servant in love,
Dhanananda.’
The message was clear. Rakshas looked at the ring bearingDhanananda's royal
insignia, which had been found inside the rolledparchment. He knew it! The priapic
bastard wanted him dead so thathe could claim Suvasini for himself. He had gifted him
the finestcunts in the kingdom but the lascivious rascal only wanted the onewoman
that Rakshas coveted—his Suvasini.
Enough! He had spent his life pimping for Dhanananda and instead
of being appreciated he was being hounded like a wild animal.
He thought about how he could get even and then had a brilliantflash—Chanakya!
‘You're a fool! When eating hot porridge you should always startfrom the outer edges
which are cooler, and not from the centrewhich is steaming hot,’ the mother chided her
little son as she nursedhis scalded fingers. Chanakya, sitting outside Dandayan's
hermitage,

watched the little drama unfold as Dandayan's housekeeper scoldedher child.
Dandayan's ashram was a quiet example of nature's bounty. Surrounded
by dense trees, the hermitage was located on the banks ofa sparkling stream and the
air had a magical quality that was difficult
to describe—a mystical combination of fresh air, the scent ofpine, eucalyptus, and the
sacred smoke of holy fires. Seated next toChanakya was Chandragupta who was also
fascinated by the theatrics
of this simple everyday occurrence. When he looked away, hesaw Chanakya smiling
at him. ‘What is it, acharya?’ asked Chandragupta.
A smile from Chanakya usually meant that he was plottingsomething. It made
Chandragupta uneasy.
‘I've been strategising this all wrong,’ said Chanakya at length.
‘This uneducated and illiterate mother is more intelligent than me.
She's expounded the perfect military strategy that I, the wise andlearned Chanakya,
could not define.’ Chandragupta was confused buthe decided to stay quiet. Usually his
teacher would explain himselfwithout further prodding.
‘Until today, my focus has been on Magadha and the coronationof you, Chandragupta,
as its emperor, but now I see that I was mistaken.
Magadha is the centre of the porridge. We first need to tuckinto the smaller kingdoms
along the peripheries. Magadha will follow
much more easily,’ explained Chanakya. ‘The only two largekingdoms that could have
posed a challenge to Magadha are Kaikeyand Gandhar. Both have now been
neutralised owing to our strategyof divide-and-rule. And within Magadha, Suvasini has
succeeded indriving a wedge between Dhanananda and Rakshas. I expect to
seeRakshas here with us in a few days. He sent me intimation of his imminent
arrival a few days ago. Who could have thought that the manipulative
Rakshas would one day be our ally? Politics makes strangebedfellows!’ laughed
Chanakya.

‘But acharya, Magadha still remains the most powerful kingdomin north Bharat. With
over two hundred thousand infantry, eightythousand cavalry, eight thousand chariots
and six thousand war elephants,
it will be difficult to capture Magadha. Even Alexander's ownmen are afraid to cross the
Ganges!’ exclaimed Chandragupta.
Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head,’ saidChanakya. ‘War is all
about deception. Direct force is a poor solutionto any problem. That's why it's used
only by little children!’
Their deliberations were suddenly interrupted by the sound oftrumpets and the dull
thud of marching soldiers. ‘Sinharan!’ calledout Chanakya. ‘See who it is. Quick!’ he
whispered urgently as Sinharan
drew near.
‘It's the mighty Alexander himself,’ said Sinharan clamberingdown the lookout tree.
‘He's come to pay his respects to SageDandayan.’ Alexander was atop his favourite
horse, Boukephalus. AThessalian horse-breeder had offered the steed to Alexander's
father,
King Philip II, for three thousand talents, but not one of Philip'shorse-trainers had been
able to mount the untamed stallion who
would buck and throw any rider that attempted to scale him. Alexander
was the only one who had succeeded. He had kept the horse eversince. Boukephalus
had seen more countries and wars than most ofAlexander's lieutenants.
Alexander dismounted as his retinue reached the ashram, and
they were led to Dandayan and his followers, who were performingtheir yogic
exercises. One particular routine involved stamping theirfeet on the ground. They
continued with their routine, oblivious tothe arrival of the godlike Alexander. Sitting at a
distance, Chanakyachuckled to himself. This would be fun.

Alexander was dressed in a short Sicilian-style tunic with a heavilyembossed leather
belt wrapped around his quilted linen breastplate.
He wore a highly polished helmet with a great white plume, and amatching gorget
embedded with gems around his slender throat. Hissword, a toughened yet agile
blade, a gift from a Cyprian emperor,
hung casually by his side. Through interpretation by Sasigupta, anAfghan tribal leader
and now a key lieutenant in the Macedonianarmy, Alexander asked Dandayan what
the significance of theirstamping the earth was. Dandayan's reply was explicit. ‘O great
King of kings, a man can possess only so much of the earth's surface asthis, the
extent that one steps on. You are mortal, like the rest of us,
and yet wish to possess more and more ground. You will soon bedead, and in that
state you will own just enough earth as needed foryour burial.’
Alexander went pale. His lieutenants gasped at the temerity of thesage and braced
themselves for the worst. Instead, a moment later,
Alexander pulled himself together and shrugged the words off. Heknelt before the wise
and naked Dandayan who was now sitting ina lotus position. ‘Please come with me, O
wise sage. Be my personaladvisor. I shall cover you in gold and you shall not want for
anything,’
he pleaded. Alexander knew the importance of enlightenedteachers. His mother,
Olympia, had appointed Leonidas, a stern relative
of hers, as his tutor, and his father, Philip, had put the adolescent
prince under the tutelage of the Greek philosopher, Aristotle. Alexander
had always maintained that his father and mother had givenhim life but that Leonidas
and Aristotle had taught him how to live.

‘Alexander, if you're the son of God, then why, so am I. I wantnothing from you, for
what I have suffices. I desire nothing that youcan give me; I fear no exclusion from any
blessings, which may perhaps
be yours. Bharat, with the fruits of her soil in due season, isenough for me while I live.
And when I die, I shall be rid of my poorbody—my unseemly dwelling!’ replied the
sage. Alexander had finally
met his match.
He rose, hands still folded in obeisance before Dandayan. ‘I stillneed your blessing,
great sage. I need you to bless me that I may bevictorious in battle,’ asked Alexander.
‘My son, you have my blessing. May you be victorious in the battlethat rages within
you!’ declared the sage, knowing that it wasn't exactly
the blessing that Alexander had asked for.
The battle that raged within had deeply affected morale in histroops. Alexander's men
had left Macedonia to teach Persia a lesson.
They had not only conquered it but also subjugated it. They hadsilently accepted
Alexander's transformation into a Persian shahenshah
and had tolerated his whims and fancies. They had pushed on ward into Bharat, had
overcome Gandhar and Kaikey, but now theirking wanted them to fight battles in
faraway Magadha, never evenpart of the Achaemenid Empire, and to march through
the intolerable
rains in the excruciating summer heat. Mutiny was as as inevitable
as Alexander's turning his back on Bharat.
‘Chanakya, my friend, how wonderful to see you again,’ lied Rakshas,
as he embraced his nemesis.

‘Rakshas, your mere presence gives me confidence and happiness,’
the Brahmin fabricated in his turn.
‘Dhanananda has crossed all limits of decency,’ complained Rakshas.
And
you're
such
a
decent
human
being,
it
goes
against
your
moralconscience, thought Chanakya caustically to himself. ‘Dhanananda'scourt is no
place for honourable people like you—those who wishto lead an honourable but
pleasurable life,’ Chanakya said aloud,
silkily.
‘The problem is that most things in life that are pleasurable areusually illegal, immoral
or fattening,’ joked Rakshas as he sat downon the mattress profferred to him.
‘The lesson for today, dear Rakshas, is that between two evils youshould always pick
the one that you haven't yet tried. I happen to bethat particular evil,’ suggested a
smiling Chanakya. ‘Now, let's examine,
what it is that I can do for you, and then we can calculate whatit is that you can do for
me.’

‘Always the teacher!’ laughed Rakshas.
‘And always right,’ interjected Chanakya seriously. ‘Dhananandacovets the love of your
life,’ he began.
‘Yours too, as I understand it,’ commented Rakshas warily.
‘I'm not your competition, Rakshas. Look at me. Can I, a dark, illfeatured,
pockmarked, crooked-toothed, uncouth Brahmin competewith you—the
immaculate, suave, and cultured prime minister? You have my promise that I do not
fancy Suvasini. She's yours, providedthat Dhanananda's out of the way.’
‘But how will that happen? He's firmly entrenched on the throne.
He has Bharat's largest armed force at his command—a force so terrifying
that even Alexander is being forced to turn back.’
‘Battles needn't be fought on battlefields, my friend. I've alwaysbelieved that wars are
better fought without soldiers and unnecessary
bloodshed,’ said Chanakya softly.
‘Do you have a plan to end all wars, acharya?’ asked Rakshas.
‘O Rakshas, everything is always all right in the end. If it isn't allright, then it isn't the
end,’ said Chanakya simply as he looked intohis new ally's eyes.
The house on Shiva street, in the eastern district of Pataliputra, wasan unassuming
structure. The neighbours knew it to be a dancingschool run by a former courtesan.
The simple single-storey house wasbuilt around a covered courtyard used by the girls

who stayed withinto practise their art. The principal of the institution was an
elegantlady in her fifties. It was said that she had once been the chief courtesan
of Dhanananda and that a wealthy patron had paid more thantwenty-four thousand
panas to secure her release from royal employment.
The students were girls from modest backgrounds who needed avocation to support
themselves and their families. They would usually
enter the institution at ages six to eight and would be taughta variety of arts including
painting, poetry, music, dancing, singing,
cooking, and drama. No expense was spared either on their trainingor in their living
standards. They were provided with the best accommodation,
clothing, food and comforts. Their principal and theirteachers were kind and
understanding.
However, there was one golden rule that could never be broken.
They each had to drink a glass of specially formulated milk everyevening. The milk
would be of varying colours, textures, and taste.
Each lactic potion was specifically mixed for a given girl and theprincipal herself
maintained detailed records of who drank howmuch of what. The girls could lead a
pampered and sheltered existence
provided they did not question this single stricture that appliedto them automatically the
moment they walked through the portalsof the school.
Between ages six and eight, the girls who showed no visible signsof pubertal
development would be given one kuduba
of powder-bluemilk formula each day. As they progressed to ages eight to ten andtheir
breast buds began to appear, they would be given two kudubasof a saffron-orange
brew every day. From ten to twelve, as their pubic

hair began to grow, the daily dosage of the concoction went upto three kudubas of a
pistachio-green mixture each evening. Duringthe twelve to fourteen period, as their
underarm hair began growingand their hips started widening in relation to their waists,
the dailyration went up to one prastha
of a cherry-pink milk sherbet. Betweenages fourteen and sixteen, as they went into
ovulation and menstruation,
they would be fed two adhakas
of an almond-brown lactic potion
daily.
Anyone researching the institute closely would have come uponan even more
interesting fact: all the girls, without exception, wereborn on Tuesdays during the
seventh lunar day of vishaka. Theypossessed unfortunately potent horoscopes that
guaranteed that anyman they cohabited with would die. They were known as
vishakanyas—
or poison maidens.
An audit investigation into the largesse that funded the establishment
would have revealed something even more curious. The entirecorpus had been
donated by a foundation called The Peacock Trust,
the founders of which were Chanakya and Senapati Maurya. An aptname, given that
Maurya owed his name to the peacock—mor.
‘We need control over Mallayrajya,’ said Chanakya. ‘And we havethe perfect candidate
in Sinharan, whose father—the legitimate

uler—was murdered by his brother so that he could ally with Paurus.
If Sinharan were in power, it would give us a much-needed baseto station our troops.’
‘We have sufficient hands, acharya. Let's mount an attack,’ suggested
Chandragupta quite predictably.
‘That would be foolish. Never interrupt the enemy while he's inthe process of making a
mistake,’ counselled the shadowy Brahmin.
‘And what mistake is Mallayrajya making?’ asked a puzzledChandragupta.
‘Not making. About to make.’ ‘About to make? Acharya, as usualyou're talking in
riddles.’
‘The kingdom of Mallayrajya is about to surrender itself to us,’
said Chanakya, leaving Chandragupta dumbfounded.
The cottage of Nipunaka was eerie. For one thing, it was built at theedge of a deserted
cremation ground. For another, it was surrounded
by ghostly banyan trees from which hung numerous symbols ofthe black arts— skulls,
dead animals, earthen jars of alcohol, knivessmeared in vermilion blood, and other
offerings to the countless unexplained
negative forces that ruled Nipunaka's dark world. An eccentric
practitioner of esoteric medicine, pharmacology, sorcery, astrology
and psychology, Nipunaka wore black robes and a garlandfashioned from the skulls of
infants. His rituals supposedly involvedhuman sacrifice and tantric sex.
Chanakya was not impressed by the trappings of magic. Hecouldn't give a horse's fart
if Nipunaka wanted to dance upon acorpse in the middle of the night while pouring

wine into a ritualisticfire. To each his own, he reasoned. What Chanakya did believe
inwas the power of fools and the folly of group psychology.
‘What brings the renowned Chanakya to my humble abode?’ askedNipunaka, bowing
low.‘Don't be humble, Nipunaka. You're not that great. Humility is better
left to kings!’ Chanakya advised him.
Nipunaka laughed. It was a sinister, menacing laugh that seemedto echo through the
dark forest. ‘You obviously have one of yournaughty schemes taking shape inside that
fertile mind of yours,’
chuckled Nipunaka. ‘Will I get to sacrifice a virgin?’
‘No one's a virgin, Nipunaka. Life screws them all,’ said Chanakyaplayfully. Nipunaka
laughed again. The sound that emerged waseven more dreadful as the weird doctor of
ghoulish sciences expressed
his enjoyment of the joke. Chanakya had the uncanny abilityto plumb the lowest
depths of the human mind. It was his greatest
asset.
‘This is my disciple, Sinharan,’ Chanakya said indicating his companion.
‘He's the rightful heir to the throne of Mallayrajya. I needyour help to win it back for
him.’
‘I am a simple tantric, O acharya. I can perform a sacred ritual sothat he's able to
ascend the throne,’ suggested Nipunaka helpfully.
‘I don't really give a rat's ass about those perverted orgies you organise
every once in a while at some poor fool's expense,’ commented

Chanakya. ‘I need your skills in psychology, drama, theatrics. Notyour usual evil
incantations,’ he continued while placing a bag ofgold panas in front of the mad
scientist.
Nipunaka smiled, quietly this time. ‘What exactly do you have inmind, acharya?’ he
asked as he picked up and tucked away the bagof gold deftly in a swift, wellpractised
motion.
‘Sinharan here would like to share some secrets about Mallayrajyawith you. Listen to
him very carefully and memorise whatever it isthat he has to tell you,’ instructed the
sagacious Brahmin.
‘And then what?’ enquired Nipunaka.
‘Ah! Then you shall go to Mallayrajya, draw upon your wondrouspowers, and do some
good old-fashioned fortune-telling!’
The court of the king of Mallayrajya was deathly quiet. All eyes werefocused on the
strange tantric godman dressed in black robes with anecklace of human skulls around
his neck. In his right hand, he helda long staff that also had a skull tied atop. In his
other hand he helda blood-red earthen pot, supposedly filled with gore.
‘O King, hear the words of the omniscient Nipunaka!’ yelled thebordering-on-insane
charlatan as he mentally reviewed the intimatesecrets of Mallayrajya provided to him
by Sinharan. ‘Within yourpalace exists a room—a musty and unused chamber which
remainslocked most of the time. In the floor of that room lies buried the bodyof a
Brahmin who was murdered here. Have it dug out and interredoutside the borders of
your kingdom. The spirit of that Brahmin continues
to curse your dynasty and is an obstacle to your progress!’

Sinharan had known that his aunt had been having a torrid illicitaffair with one of the
palace guards—a Brahmin. Caught in the actof frenzied copulation, the guard had
been murdered by Sinharan'sfurious cousin who had witnessed his mother's royal
fornication. Theson had then proceeded to bury the body in an unused storage
closetfor want of an alternative means of disposing of it. He had takenSinharan's help,
drawing on his sympathy and moral outrage. Twoparties to the secrecy—Sinharan's
aunt and her angry son—died afew years later when Paurus attacked the capital of
Mallayrajya, taking
the secret of the buried corpse to their pyres.
The king and his courtiers were mesmerised by the sheer audacityof the madman who
stood before them. The king struggled to maintain
his composure and asked, ‘Powerful guru, can you tell us wherethis Brahmin's body is
located? The palace complex covers more thana hundred acres and finding it without
divine intervention would beimpossible.’
The half-crazed Nipunaka shut his eyes and started mumbling—
loudly enough to be audible to most present at court—‘I prostrate
myself before Bali, the son of Vairochana. I pray to Sambara,
the master of a hundred magical mantras. I kneel before Nikumbha,
Naraka, Kumbha, and Tantukachha, the powerful beast. O Chandali,
Kumbhi, Tumba, Katuka, Saraga, I beg you, point me in the direction
of those bones!’ He suddenly opened his eyes wide and with an airof hysteria shouted
aloud, ‘I have it! Follow me!’
He started running wildly towards the room, the location of whichhad been explained in
detail by Sinharan. As he approached theseventh door, situated along the west-facing
passage on the secondfloor, he stopped. He closed his eyes once again and mustered
upall the preternatural energy that he could possibly hope to gatherand remarked, ‘I
can feel the negative energy of the Brahmin's ghostright here. I'm not wrong! Nipunaka

is never wrong! By the power ofChandali, excavate that room and get rid of
Mallayrajya's worries.’
As the bones were exposed from the shovelled earthen floor, theking went up to
Nipunaka and bowed to him, overpowered by theintensity of the tantric's unearthly
power. Nipunaka blessed the kingby smearing consecrated ash on the ruler's
forehead. The king tookoff his sapphire necklace and offered it to the mystic, who
picked itup and threw it into the grave that had been uncovered. ‘Of what useare
precious gems to me, O King? If I wanted, all the world's richescould be mine but I
neither possess nor desire material wealth,’ hesaid, meticulously though reluctantly
following Chanakya's instructions
to appear incorruptible. There was a hushed, respectful silenceas the gathered
spectators mulled over the selfless attitude of the profound
master.
A day later, the king fell ill. High fever accompanied by chills andconvulsions made him
weak and unable to attend court. His feverish
state made him delusional, too, and in his state of temporary insanity,
he hurled filthy abuse at all around him. Nipunaka knew that thesacred ash applied to
the sovereign's head had worked. It had contained
powdered dhatura
seeds, a known formula for inducing hallucinations.
The worried queen called Nipunaka back to the palace.
‘Please find a remedy for the sudden inexplicable state of the monarch,’
she pleaded.
‘Do not worry, O Queen. Make the king drink a glass of milk withthis unique formulation
that I have prepared. You have my word thathe shall be healthy by the morning,’ the
artful fraud reassured her.
His antidote contained powdered chitrak roots and black pepper, prepared

in advance by Chanakya.
The king's remarkable recovery the next day propelled Nipunakato godman status.
This was the guru's second extraordinary achievement
in two days. But there wasn't any time to celebrate. Armed mercenaries,
led by a young upstart known as Chandragupta, and assisted
by Sinharan—claimant to the throne of Mallayrajya— surrounded
the city, and the fortified capital came officially under siege. Thesiege continued for the
entire duration of the waxing of the moonand the city began to run low on critical
supplies and provisions. Ata hastily convened council meeting, the decision to launch
an outright
frontal assault on Sinharan and Chandragupta's forces was being
pondered over, when Nipunaka made another grand entrance.
‘King! I have an important message for you,’ began the trickster,
blissfully aware that the gullible Cabinet was lapping up his everyword. ‘Inside the
palace temple stands a statue of Kubera. The dailyprayers performed by your royal
priests before the deity were flawedand it is precisely for this reason that you face the
threat of extinction.
Rectify the fault and you shall see the enemy retreat!’
Following his orders and accompanied by a series of incantationsand rituals, the
earthen idol of Kubera was duly removed and allowed
to melt away inside the royal lake while hymns and invocations
prescribed by the preeminent Nipunaka continued. At that verymoment, Chanakya
ordered Sinharan and Chandragupta to withdraw
their troops and retire to a hideout a few miles away fromthe fortified capital. As news
of the miraculous withdrawal filteredin, celebrations began and nobles and commoners
alike flooded thestreets. As music, wine and women took over and the revelry
reachedits climax, Chanakya's soldiers of fortune crept back to the fortifications

and stormed the unsuspecting town. It was a bloodlesscoup—sudden, dramatic, and
smooth, typical of the Brahmin whohad choreographed it all.
The coronation of Sinharan as king of Mallayrajya was magnificent.
‘Always keep your words soft and sweet, O Sinharan. Just in case youever have to
take them back,’ advised his mentor as he blessed the
new sovereign.
Sinharan knelt before his teacher and said ‘Acharya, I feel guiltyabout what happened
to my uncle and his family. I had simply exiledhim after our takeover of the kingdom, as
you advised. I feel terriblethat he and his family were murdered by dacoits thereafter. I
fearthat his death will haunt me for the rest of my life.’
‘Everyone leaves the world a better place, some merely by leaving.
Your uncle was one of those!’ said a victorious Chanakya as hegloated over his
memory of the events of the previous day when theinhabitants of the city had
capitulated to them.
‘I do not wish to burden Sinharan with the odious task of eliminating
challengers to his throne,’ he had confided to Mehir. ‘I shallask Sinharan to banish his
uncle from Mallayrajya. Our effort, Mehir,
must be to ensure that the former king leaves the borders of thekingdom absolutely
unharmed.’
‘But is it wise to exile him? He's an ally of Paurus, and will flee toKaikey with a view to
raising troops. Paurus will only be too happyto support his endeavour. Afer all,
Sinharan's ascension to the thronemeans that Mallayrajya is no longer a vassal of
Kaikey,’ Mehir hadexclaimed.
‘You're absolutely right, Mehir. And that's why I need him eliminated—

ut not officially. The population of Mallayrajya must lovetheir new ruler, Sinharan. He
should appear kind, fair, just, truthfuland benevolent. It's vital that Sinharan's uncle be
seen leaving thekingdom—unharmed and unhindered—along with his family
andsupporters.’
‘And then?’ asked Mehir, knowing the answer and also knowingthat it was an answer
that would remain unspoken.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Present Day
The suite at the Hotel Clarks in Lucknow was cool and dark. The
curtains had been partly drawn to block out the harsh afternoonsun, and the
airconditioning had been set to the lowest possible temperature.
Sitting inside were two men—Pandit Gangasagar Mishraand Ram Shankar Dwivedi.
Dwivedi was nervous. He kept adjustinghis spectacles and straightening his hair. He
was dressed like any other
Indian politician—white homespun kurta and pyjama— but the accessories
that embellished his Gandhian outfit were not all that
humble. His spectacle frames were Gucci, the pen in his pocket a solidsilver Mont
Blanc, his wristwatch a yellow gold Rolex, and his feetwere comfortably encased in
Bally loafers.

Why had the party patriarch decided to call him for a one-on-onemeeting in a luxury
suite, he asked himself. A trickle of sweat left hisupper back and dripped down his
spine in spite of the freezing room.
It caused him to shudder. This was not good. Pandit GangasagarMishra was a coldblooded
killer when it came to politics, thoughtDwivedi. What did he know? Was he
being called for a dressing-downby the ABNS patriarch?
Gangasagar stared at him in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Talk, damn you, thought Dwivedi to himself. Unknown toDwivedi, Gangasagar was
wearing a woollen vest inside his kurta andsat comfortably snug, unaffected by the
sub-zero chill of the room. Let
him shiver, thought Gangasagar. If he's cold, he'll want to pee, and that
will make him even more nervous.
‘I'm told that you're rather sociable these days, Dwivediji,’ saidGangasagar at length.
‘Everyone I meet tells me they have visited yourhouse.’
‘It is my misfortune that you have not had the time to be my guest,
Panditji, I would love to have you over for dinner,’ replied Dwivedianxiously.
‘Let me rephrase the statement. To be precise, twentyfour of ourABNS MLAs have
been observed regularly visiting your house—andplease don't tell me that they came
just for whisky and samosas!’
Dwivedi fidgeted some more. He took a deep breath and said, ‘I'ma loyal party worker,
Panditji. Some disgruntled elements were trying
to ignite a rebellion. I thought that it was my paramount duty toconvince them
otherwise.’

‘I'm proud of you, Dwivediji. I should have realised that thesephotos were doctored,’
declared Gangasagar as he tossed a bunch ofglossy 4 x 6-inch photos on the glass
coffee table before them. Thecolour drained from Dwivedi's face as he stared at the
obscene photographs
showing him in various Kama
Sutra-inspired positions alongwith Eesha. He mumbled incoherently, but no words
emerged.
‘Relax, Dwivediji. Don't worry. She said that you were quite goodin bed,’ Gangasagar
laughed maniacally as he went in for the kill.
‘I have forty-nine negatives with me—one for each month of the remaining
term of this government. If Chandini is still chief ministerin the forty-ninth month, all the
negatives shall be returned to you,
deal?’
Dwivedi nodded dumbly, his very life having been sucked out ofhim. Pandit
Gangasagar Mishra got up from his chair. ‘Ah! One morerequest. Please remember
that it's now in your interest to ensure thatthis government lasts. It shall be your
personal responsibility to keepme informed if there are any murmurs of dissent, is that
understood?’
he demanded before walking out of the hotel suite, turning off theair conditioner as he
left.
‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab
Shakti,
Namo

Namah;
Prithum
Bhagvati,
Namo
Namah;
Kundalini
Mata
Shakti;
Mata
Shakti,
NamoNamah,’ he said to himself.
Chandini was devastated. Shankar had been a breath of fresh air, her
only indulgence after Geoffrey. She looked at herself in the mirror,
holding back tears that wanted to breach the dam. She would notcry. It seemed that it
was not in her destiny to either love or be loved.
She dabbed a tissue under her deep blue eyes, flushed it down theaircraft toilet and
stepped out to join Gangasagar.
The flight from Lucknow to Delhi was short but uncomfortable.
Take-off had been delayed by over an hour due to a faulty auxiliarypower supply unit
and by the time that had been rectified, air trafficcontrol had denied permission to
leave, owing to inclement weather.
Gangasagar had phoned the civil aviation minister in New Delhito have a word put in to
Lucknow's air traffic control to grant thempermission to take off. The rest of the
passengers on the flight wereunaware that they were the lucky recipients of political
largesse—atake-off that would have probably been aborted if not for the presence
of Gangasagar. Chandini, Ikram, Gangasagar and Menon wereseated in the front row
of the aircraft. The usually grumpy airhostesshad suddenly perked up and was making

an extra effort to be warmand caring towards her VIP guests although her attitude of
generalindifference returned the moment that she reached the second row.
‘What do we expect to achieve in New Delhi?’ asked Ikram.
‘Do you remember our conversation when you had just taken overas mayor, Ikram?’
asked Gangasagar.
‘Which one? There were so many,’ joked Ikram. ‘The one when Itold you that we
should be dogooders because we want to win thenext elections. That real power lay at
state level, not in local government.’
‘Yes. I do remember.’
‘Well, I want to tell you that I was wrong.’ ‘What do you mean?
We hold the reigns of power in Uttar Pradesh. Our own dear
Chandini is the chief minister. I, Ikram Shaikh, am mayor of Kanpur.’
‘Yes. But real power lies at the Centre in New Delhi and that'swhere we're all going to
be some years from now. This is orientationweek.’
‘But we could have had this discussion in Lucknow. Why are wegoing to Delhi to
discuss these matters?’ asked Chandini.
‘To meet Major Jaspal Singh Bedi,’ replied Gangasagar.
‘Who's he?’ asked Ikram.
‘He's the man who will ensure that we win sixty-five out of theeighty-five Lok Sabha
seats in Uttar Pradesh.’
The suave and dapper Sikh was over six feet tall. He wore a navyblue
suit, and his deep crimson turban was meticulously colour-coordinated
with his pocket kerchief and tie. The double cuffs of hisstarched white Egyptian cotton
shirt peeped the correct inch fromhis suit sleeves and bore solid silver cufflinks
emblazoned with the
crest of the Indian armed forces. His salt-and-pepper beard, moustache
and eyebrows were immaculately groomed, not a single hairout of place.

Major Jaspal Singh Bedi had been born to a middleclass family inPunjab and had been
wild and unruly throughout his childhood andyouth. He was the leader of a gang that
had perfected the art of stealing
sweets from unsuspecting customers just as they emerged frompopular sweet shops.
Jaspal's accomplices would cause a ruckus byfighting amongst themselves. The
hapless customers carrying shopping
bags would attempt to intervene and resolve matters whileJaspal would courteously
offer to hold their parcels for them whilethey did. Five minutes later the customers
would have succeeded inreconciliation but Jaspal would have vanished—along with
their parcels.
Jaspal's worried father had eventually requested one of his cousins,
a lieutenant-colonel in the Indian Army to convince Jaspal totake up a ten-year short
service commission in the army. Jaspal refused—
he was having too much fun stealing sweets. The officer hadcalled the boy to his
cowshed and given him the thrashing of hislife. No options were offered. Jaspal left for
the Officers TrainingAcademy in Chennai for fifty weeks the very next morning. His fath
er hoped the army would discipline the reckless youth and give hislife a sense of
purpose.
It did. The discipline of army life suited Jaspal. His stint with thearmy empowered him
with analytical thinking, planning skills, andteam-playing abilities. He rapidly worked his
way up from lieutenant to captain to major. Having completed his ten-year commission,
he joined a small market research agency employed by the Government
of India to carry out surveys of rural populations in conjunctionwith the ten-year
population census. Jaspal had spent the next tenyears mapping population
demographics across India, a gargantuantask, methodically implemented by the
disciplined soldier in him. Heleft the firm having reached the position of Country
Head—Rural Research.to set up his own consultancy, which would combine two
sciences that were symbiotic—polling and politics.
‘The Lok Sabha is the directly elected lower house of the Parliament
of India. Five hundred and fifty-two members are directly elected

y an electorate of over seven hundred million voters, an electorate
larger than that of America and Europe combined,’ began MajorBedi. ‘The reason I am
here with you today is that your state—UttarPradesh—sends eighty-five members to
the Lok Sabha. That is a significant
number. Why? Because if this number were to ever be controlled
by a single party, that party—even if just a regional player—
would play a crucial role in forming a government at the Centre.’
‘But that dream is far-fetched, Major Bedi. Uttar Pradesh is not ahomogenous
monolith. It consists of people who vote based on religion,
caste, gender and economic strata. One size does not fit all!’
said Menon.
‘You're right, Mr Menon. And that's the reason why a single formula
will never work in Uttar Pradesh. The single formula is to haveno single formula. Some
seats will be fought along caste lines—Dalitsversus Brahmins or Yadavs versus
Banias; other seats will be foughtalong religious divisions—Hindus versus Muslims.
Yet others may befought on economic grounds—poor versus the rich. That's where
theABNS scores,’ explained the Major, taking a sip of water to lubricatehis throat.
‘How?’ wondered Ikram, dipping a sugar-coated biscuit into histea and taking a bite.
‘All other parties in Uttar Pradesh seem to have a core constituency.
The ABNS has none,’ replied Jaspal confidently.
‘So we're screwed?’ asked Ikram slurping his tea loudly.
‘On the contrary. Your strength lies in not
having a core constituency.
The very criteria that is perceived as a strength in oneregion is usually a weakness in
another. For example, if the ABNSwere perceived as a party of Dalits, that would help

the party inDalit strongholds but it would be a drawback in Brahmin-dominatedareas,’
reasoned Major Bedi.
‘So you want us to ally ourselves with Hindus and
Muslims, Brahmins
and
Dalits, Yadavs and
Thakurs, landlords and
farmers, rich and
poor, men and
women, old and
young… don't we run the risk of becoming
a khichdi
with no single dominant flavour?’ asked Chandini.
‘The other parties already have candidates who have representedthese constituencies
for years. You have the advantage of a cleanslate. You can cherry-pick your own
candidates, accurately tailoredto the specific requirements of the constituency in
question,’ said Major
Bedi, ‘and that's where I come into the picture’.
‘What will you do?’ asked Chandini.
‘Have done,’ corrected Bedi. ‘I was assigned by Gangasagarji thejob of determining
the ideal profile of a candidate for each of theeighty-five Uttar Pradesh constituencies a
year ago. I am here to apprise
you of my findings.’
‘You have eighty-five constituencies—Kheri, Dhaurahra, Bijnor, Amroha,
Moradabad, Rampur, Sambhal, Budaun—’

He continued rattling off all the names methodically from his list.
Along with each name he described its population, the literacy rate,
age demographics, gender split, percentage composition of castes, religions
and ethnicities, and the primary occupations of the population. Facts and figures
poured forth effortlessly from Major Bedi. Hewas the human equivalent of a computer.
As he reached the last constituency he said, ‘In Uttar Pradesh theelectoral contest is
still about settling the primary questions of socialdominance. I have analysed each of
the eighty-five constituencies onthis parameter.’
‘Social dominance? You mean caste!’ exclaimed Ikram.
‘Not merely caste. Social dominance is influenced by caste,
gender, religion, age and
economic strength. Please understand thatthere is no single constituency where a
single dominant group canwin an election! For example, in western Uttar
Pradesh—Meerut—you have a concentration of Jats, the region oftenbeing called
Jatland. How many Jats are there in Meerut? Ten per
cent! Can you win an election with ten per cent?’ asked Bedi.
‘So how does one win, for example, Meerut?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Look beyond the caste equations, Gangasagarji,’ suggested Bedi.
‘Meerut has a population of half a million. The city is sixty-two percent Hindu, thirty-five
per cent Muslim, three per cent Sikh, half percent Christian and half per cent Jain; fiftythree
per cent of the population
is male, and the average literacy rate is seventy-two per cent,
quite high for Uttar Pradesh.’

‘So our ideal candidate is an educated Hindu male?’ asked
Chandini.
‘On the contrary, Hindus tend not to vote en bloc. Their votes getsplit along caste lines
or on other considerations. Instead, if one wasto try to forge an alliance of Jats and
Muslims one could, theoretically,
capture forty-five per cent of the votes,’ answered Bedi.
‘But why would Jats and Muslims vote for the same candidate?’
asked Chandini.
‘Good question. You assume that these two groups have been opposed
to one another historically and hence correctly figure that thepossibility of finding
someone who appeals to both groups is remote.
But I have succeeded in identifying potential candidates from the Chhachhar
community,’ said Major Bedi proudly.
‘Why Chhachhar?’ asked a confused Menon.
‘Chhachars are a tribe of Jats who converted to Islam many yearsago. Their
descendants are Muslim Jats. A Muslim Jat is your perfectcombination to win this
constituency,’ declared the dapper sardar.
‘What would further strengthen his chances of winning?’ askedGangasagar quietly.
‘Meerut is an important industrial town. It has eleven sugar-processing
mills and more than seventy per cent of the population is engaged
in sugarcane cultivation. If our Chhachhar candidate were tobe a sugarcane farmer, he
would be much more acceptable—even toother castes and communities—because of
economic considerations.’

‘But you said that by doing all of this we would have forty-fiveper cent of the votes.
That would still leave fifty-five per cent!’ saidMenon.
‘The fifty-five per cent is only dangerous if it is left concentratedin the hands of a single
opposition candidate. That brings me to the
next part of my strategy,’ said Bedi, flipping through his notes.
‘And what is that?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘The second part of the strategy is to ensure that the remaining
fifty-five per cent votes get split.’
‘And how would you achieve this?’ asked Ikram.
‘Simple. Map the profile of the existing sitting MP and find a replica
to put up as an additional independent candidate in each contest.
The job of this candidate is simply to play spoiler and split thecompetition's vote bank.’
‘So we need to find ourselves a Muslim Jat sugarcane farmer? Wethen need to find
ourselves a spoiler who closely matches the profileof the present MP from Meerut
constituency?’ spluttered Ikram.
‘I have already found the former for you. His name is Daula Hassan
Bhatti. He's fifty-three years old, a Muslim Jat—his family migrated
to Meerut three generations ago—and owns a five-acre sugarcane
farm along with a crushing facility. He's a natural choice,’ explained
Bedi.

‘But—but are we expected to go around begging such peopleto contest elections on
our ticket? We already have party workersqueuing up for Lok Sabha tickets, why not
make it easier by choosingfrom amongst them?’ asked Ikram.
‘Do you want to win or not? Never make the mistake of choosingfrom a suboptimal
pool. Identify the perfect candidate according tothe constituency. Now, shall I tell you
about the remaining eightyfour
ideal candidates from the other constituencies?’ asked Bedi, as
Gangasagar sat quietly through the exchange, smiling.
‘The traders of Uttar Pradesh are going on strike,’ said Chandini.
‘Why?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘They say that the sales-tax rate in Uttar Pradesh is too high. Theywant it reduced.’
‘You don't simply go around giving away tax revenue becausesomeone wants it! Do
you give whisky to an alcoholic because hejust happens to want it?’
‘I agree. But what should I do? The strike will bring all economicactivity to a halt. Prices
of essential commodities will skyrocket. Our
constituents will be angry.’
‘Hike sales tax by another five per cent!’
‘We can't do that! They're already in a combative mood—’
‘They have already taken the ultimate step of going on strike,

ight? What more can they do?’
‘And how will we ever get them to call it off?’
‘Give them a three-per-cent cut as concession to halt the strike.
You still gain two,’ the Pandit chuckled.
‘The bus drivers of the state transport corporation continue to driverashly under the
influence of alcohol— this has been the fourth road accident in a fortnight,’ complained
Chandini, pointing out the newspaper report to Gangasagar.
‘Why don't we sack the drivers if they are found guilty?’ askedGangasagar.
‘They have to be convicted first. The court cases drag on for years.’
‘There's a perfect solution to solve the problem.’
‘And that is?’
‘Pay drivers’ salaries directly to their wives. They'll never partwith a penny for tipple!
Tell the transport commissioner to ensurethat all salary payments are made out to the
wives. You'll halve thedrunk-driving rate!’
‘Loan defaults plague our regional banks,’ said Chandini as shepushed across the
financial statements compiled by the state comptroller.
‘Who are the defaulters?’
‘Farmers, businessmen, traders, home-owners, as well as peoplewho run up hefty bills
on their credit cards. If we don't recover theseamounts, Uttar Pradesh's banks may
collapse one day.’
‘Leave the farmers. Scant rains have resulted in poor harvests thisyear. Give them
more time to pay up and write off the interest on their loans.’
‘And the others?’
‘They should have no difficulty paying. They are simply taking advantage
of the sloppy debt-recovery mechanism of our state-ownedbanks.’
‘But the only action that we can take is to go to court. That's expensive
and time-consuming. It could be years before one sees results.’
‘Tell Sachla Devi to recover your loans.’
‘Who?’
‘Sachla Devi. She's a famous eunuch in Lucknow. I can ask her to

help you.’
‘Why on earth should I take help from a eunuch?’
‘Because she has bands of wandering eunuchs who do absolutelynothing productive
all day, besides standing outside homes andshops and clapping and shouting loudly.’
‘They only do that on happy occasions—marriages, births, inaugurations.
Donating to eunuchs is supposed to bring good luck!’
‘But people don't cough up cash to eunuchs because they wantgood luck. They simply
want good riddance.’
‘So?’
‘Sachla Devi will organise her gangs to stand outside defaulters’homes and offices.
They will clap loudly and embarrass them beforetheir friends and neighbours. They'll
get fed up and pay up. TellSachla Devi that she will get ten per cent of the loans
recovered byher team!’
The cabinet meeting was excessively long, the tea lukewarm, thesnacks insipid. The
agenda was fiery, though. The cabinet room located
inside the PMO—the Prime Minister's Office—at South Block,
Raisina Hill, was an ornate room in which cut flowers were changedeach day and
sniffer dogs were led into corners to check for explosives
every few hours. The PMO had an uncomplicated occupancyplan with six joint
secretaries housed on the ground floor and theprime minister and his key lieutenants
on the first. The only noticeable
feature of the PMO was the presence of a paper-shredder in almost
every room. This prime minister was obsessive about secrecy,
and rightly so. They were sitting for a marathon Cabinet sessionsimply because some
nitwit had forgotten to use the damned shredder.
The offending paragraph was read and reread several times.
‘Articles 15 and 16 of the Constitution guarantee every Indian citizen

freedom as well as equality before the laws of the land. Reservationfor those who had
been left behind by Indian society was indeed partof the Constitution when it was
framed and adopted in 1950. Thosewho framed the Constitution themselves believed
that it was a temporary
measure and would last for ten years. But several decadeslater we still find reservation
in place. Doesn't this tell us that Indiahas made very little progress in bringing the
scheduled castes, scheduled
tribes and other backward classes into the mainstream of India?
Is it time to take another look at the policy and decide whether it hasactually worked?’
The prime minister never had any intention of reviewing thepolicy on reservation. It
was a powder keg that would explode irrespective
of which way one went. If one came down in favour ofending reservation, the streets
would be filled with protestors—thosewho were the beneficiaries of the reservation
policy. If one expresseda view that reservation should be continued, the streets would
also be filled with protestors—this time with those whom the policy haddiscriminated
against. It was a no-win situation. This prime minister's policy was not
to have a policy on the matter.
The infernal document had been drafted by his policy advisorswho had believed that
the prime minister might be forced by the Opposition to make a statement on the issue
in the Lok Sabha. Theywanted to be prepared. But why hadn't they used the damn
shredderthereafter? The offending paragraph had travelled from South Block,
to North Block, and further to the editorial offices of the Hindustan
Times. The next morning the prime minister was fried for the country's
breakfast.
‘The press is asking for our views on the story,’ said the cabinet secretary.
‘Of course they are. I send them stories about foundation stoneslaid for new
hospitals—they don't care. I send them material on thenew education reform policy—
they don't care. I send them photographs

of our foreign delegations that are ushering in a new eraof peace and stability—they
don't care. But they get one paragraphfrom that infernal memo that should never have
been written up in the first place and they come flocking like vultures smelling blood!’
retorted the premier angrily.
‘Er… ahem… ’ began the finance minister.
‘Yes, what is it? Say what you want, let's not have you clearingyour throat in
perpetuity,’ demanded the irritated PM.
‘Er… ah! Yes. I do believe that the only way that we can limitthe damage is by giving
them an even bigger story—one that wouldsimply overshadow this one,’ said the
greying finance minister.
‘And what would that be?’ asked the prime minister.
‘A war with Pakistan perhaps?’ interjected the external afffairsminister.
‘You want me to declare war on Pakistan so we can kill a newspaper
story? Has everyone lost their minds?’ shouted the prime minister.
After an interminable pause, the home minister spoke up. ‘We donot have to declare
war. Simply convey the impression that there areskirmishes along the IndoPakistan
border. The press will lap it up.’
‘It takes two to tango,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘What gives yougentlemen the
impression that Pakistan will go along with it?’
‘Pakistan will always go along with it. Their own internal politicsis a mess. It will be a
welcome relief for them to get back to doingwhat they do best, whipping up war
hysteria and dishing it out to unsuspectingsuckers—the ordinary citizens of Pakistan,’
said the minister for external affairs.
‘Couldn't we be hauled up later by the press for dishing out precisely
the same sort of drivel to our citizens?’ asked the prime minister.
‘A little inaccuracy sometimes saves a ton of explanation, sir,’ saidthe cabinet
secretary. The finance minister, the home minister andthe minister for external affairs
nodded their heads sagely. The defence minister was conspicuously silent.

‘If a war-like situation persists, public sentiment will be with thegovernment of the day.
It always happens. People who would loveto pull down the government's pants
suddenly become patriotic!’
said Agrawalji to Gangasagar as they sat in his garden eating lunch.
Chandini and Ikram were the only other invitees.
‘He's covering his ass! Nothing more,’ exclaimed Ikram, stuffing agobi paratha into his
eagerly awaiting mouth.
‘A wise man covers his ass. An even wiser man leaves his pantson,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Huh?’
‘The reservations leak that we arranged from the Prime Minister'sOffice did its job. The
prime minister has played into our handsby creating war hysteria. Every defence
contract will now be underscrutiny—Majestic Munitions in particular.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Majestic Munitions was awarded a very large contract forrifles, and two per
cent of the firm now belongs to the sadhvi as perour instructions to Somany. And the
sadhvi is the prime minister's illegitimate daughter. A case of impropriety, wouldn't you
say?’ askedGangasagar, draining his glass of salted lassi.
‘But we would end up hurting Somany. He holds a stake in Majestic,’
argued Chandini. ‘He'll come back wanting his losses recouped.’
‘I'd asked him to sell the shares of Majestic no sooner the deal wasinked. I'm given to
understand that his block of shares was sold threedays ago,’ said the Pandit,
suppressing a little burp in appreciationof the wonderful food that was served at
Agrawalji's house.
‘So how do we play this?’ asked Ikram, digging into the famousAgrawal rice pudding.
‘We get our weasel reporter back and offer him the opportunity toshake the Prime
Minister's throne. After all, he has been sitting impatiently
awaiting our nod to use the sadhvi material, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But no talk about her being an illegitimate daughter,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Why Ganga, I didn't realise that you had a soft spot for her,’ saidAgrawalji in jest.

‘I don't. I believe that information is like money. Better to retainit like a bank balance
than spend it unwisely,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Chandini, I think Lok Sabha elections may happen sooner than weexpected!’
Gangasagar laughed. The laugh tickled his throat and hecoughed. He gulped some
water and laughed again, uncontrollably.
Agrawalji, Chandini and Ikram looked at him curiously. It was disconcerting
to see the Pandit out of control.
‘What's the joke?’ asked Ikram.
‘The prime minister. I'm imagining him with no pants on!’
‘It's said that she visits you every day! Your side of the story, sir.’
‘No comment.’
‘They say you awarded defence contracts to Majestic because she was a shareholder.
Is that true?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is it true that she has divine powers and that she used them to make you prime
minister?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do both of you practise black magic together when you're alone?’
‘No comment.’
‘Does she attend cabinet meetings to influence decisions?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is she your mistress?’
‘No comment.’
The prime minister got into the waiting car and sighed. This wasnot turning out to be a
good day.
‘The prime minister will have no alternative but to resign. Thereshall be a power
struggle for the top job with the finance minister,
home minister and the minister for external affairs battling it out forthe position,’ said
Gangasagar.

‘And who shall win?’ asked Chandini.
‘None. When lions fight over a goat, it's usually the hyena that gets away with the
prize.’
‘And who's the hyena?’
‘The defence minister.’
‘But he's a fool!’ sputtered Chandini.
‘I don't care. All that I want is for him to finalise his party's candidate list for Uttar
Pradesh.’
‘And whom do you want on that list?’
‘All his existing MPs.’
‘Why?’
‘Politicians are like diapers—they need to be changed frequently!
Anti-incumbency will work beautifully against them.’
‘Shouldn't the ABNS get into a pre-poll alliance with the ruling partyin New Delhi?’
asked Chandini.
‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Gangasagar.
‘Why not? Doesn't the defence minister want it?’
‘Of course he does. But we'll decide later.’
‘Why? Haven't we decided which side we're on?’
‘Of course we have.’
‘And which side is that?’
The winning side, my girl, the winning side.’
‘He must have a victory, something that enables him to become thecentre of attention,’
said Gangasagar.
‘You mean the defence minister? He's been saying that he has noambitions to become
the prime minister,’ said Chandini.
‘That's not the same as saying he won't allow his name to go forward
if he's persuaded by his well-wishers!’

The prime minister, the finance minister, the minister for externalaffairs, the home
minister and the defence minister—they are allmembers of the same ruling party in
New Delhi. Why should it matter to us which one eventually wins?’
‘There is one significant reason, Chandini.’
‘And what's that?’
Our young tycoon, Somany, has an excellent equation with thedefence minister.
Remember Majestic Munitions? It's in our interestthat our man gets the job.’
‘So you think you can swing the prime minister's job towards thedefence minister?’
‘Yes, but he's not seen as a serious contender for the top job. Ifhe's to emerge as an
alternative he must do something dramatic,
something that gives him instant credibility and recognition.’
‘Like what?’
‘We could ask him to win a war.’
‘Where?’
‘NJ9842.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Precisely why it's the perfect location.’
Coordinate NJ9842 was the point from where the boundary disputebetween India and
Pakistan stretched into the highest battlefield in
the world. Both countries’ troops were stationed eyeball to eyeballat a height of over
twenty thousand feet above sea level at sub-zerotemperatures. The Siachen Glacier—
located in the Karakoram mountain
range containing some of the highest peaks in the world—wasone of the world's most
inhospitable regions. Temperatures hoveredat around minus forty degrees centigrade
and if one's exposed skintouched metal, it would instantly bind as though with crazy
glue.
The glacier received ten metres of snow annually and blizzardsreached one hundred
and fifty knots.

Despite having been fitted with five layers of clothing, the defenceminister shivered as
he stepped off the special AN-32A military aircraft
from Leh. A military advanced light helicopter was waiting tofly him to Point Sonam, the
world's highest helipad, built by the Indian
army. The chopper pilot remained quiet. He didn't wish to scarethe minister by telling
him that landing a chopper at Point Sonamwas a hair-raising experience.
As the shuddering metal beast began its descent on the microscopic
helipad perched atop a needle of ice, the rotor blades struggled toextract even minimal
lift from the rarefied air. The decision to lower
the minister via rope ladder when there was no need to do so wasfoolish, thought the
pilot. But who was he to argue with the intellectual
might of the bureaucracy at Sena Bhavan—defence ministryheadquarters.
He turned around to look behind. He saw the nervous and
bundled-up defence minister shivering, his teeth chattering. Thepilot didn't know that
the defence minister was cursing his
friend—Somany—under his breath as he got ready to descend therope ladder. The
minister didn't know that the idea wasn't Somany'sbut Gangasagar's.
‘There's no war to be won,’ said Chandini.
‘There's always a war if you look closely enough,’ said Gangasagar.
‘And where are you searching for it?’
‘In the newspapers,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Huh?’
‘The war to be won is on paper—a war of words! Not soldiersfighting! We don't need
anything that messy.’
‘I'm still confused.’
‘We'll leak the story that Indian and Pakistani troops stationed in
Siachen have exchanged fire.’

‘Have they?’ asked Chandini.
‘They might have,’ answered Gangasagar. ‘We can't be sure that they didn't.
Exchange of random fire happens almost every day inSiachen.’
‘You could say that almost anything might be possible, using that
particular theory!’
‘Precisely. They might have. They might not have. Who's to say what's the truth?’
‘And then?’
‘We tell Somany to ask the defence minister to visit the Indiantroops in Siachen.
Wonderful publicity with the minister of defenceclambering down a rope ladder from a
chopper. The ultimate protectorof India's sovereignty and integrity! Superman and
Spiderman morphed into one!’
‘And then?’
‘Another leak that the situation was rapidly brought under controlas a result of the
defence minister's personal initiative to visit thetroops and the consequent lifting of
their morale.’
‘The newspapers won't fall for it—they'll see it as a publicitystunt.’
‘They'll believe it if a leaked secret report of an American defencethink-tank says so.’
‘How will you get an American defence think-tank to say what youwant it to?’
‘Majestic Munitions has a stake in Strategic Asia Research Defence—SARD—an
American think-tank on Asian military matters.
Somany has promised me a SARD report as and when I ask for it.’
‘And the report would be true?’
‘It might be. Who's to say that the Pakistani troops didn't with draw!’
‘But they never attacked in the first place!’
‘Really? I didn't know that. They might have.’
‘So it's all one big lie?’
‘It might be. But then again, it might not!’

‘So what does Somany want in return for having swung the primeminister's job the
defence minister's way?’ asked Chandini.
‘Nothing. He's gained by having his own friend inside South Block.
He will now use his newly acquired status to teach his senior partner—
Rungta—a lesson,’ replied Gangasagar.
‘And we're fine with that?’
‘In politics there are no permanent friends or enemies.’
‘Uncle Ganga, you shall definitely go to hell when you die!’
‘I'm entirely prepared for that eventuality, dear girl. I shall be delighted
to go meet my maker. Luckily for me, my maker doesn't seemto be in a hurry to meet
me!’
Chandini was seated at her desk in her spacious office at Lal BahadurShastri Bhavan.
Gangasagar was sitting on the sofa in the informalcorner of her suite. They were
watching the news. The anchor wassaying:
‘The President of India on Wednesday dissolved the Lok Sabhawith immediate effect,
paving the way for constitution of the new House, which is expected later this month.
The president signed anorder to this effect following a recommendation from the new
primeminister, the erstwhile minister of defence. Soon after a meeting ofthe Union
Cabinet the prime minister drove to Rashtrapati Bhavanto submit the resignation of his
council of ministers to the presidentin person. The president asked him to continue
until a new ministrywas formed. The meeting between the president and the prime
minister lasted for thirty min—’
Gangasagar switched off the television, cutting the anchor in mid-
sentence. ‘The bastard has called for early elections thinking that hisnewly-won
national fame in Siachen will help him personally,’ saidGangasagar.

‘We're ready for the ballot,’ said Chandini. ‘It does not matter thatthe date has
been advanced by six months. We've spent the last twoyears doing nothing but
preparing for this.’
‘Even so, it's now crucial that the early opinion polls put us in thelead in Uttar
Pradesh,’ said Gangasagar.
‘We don't control public opinion,’ said Chandini.
‘There's no such thing as public opinion. There's only publishedopinion and we must
ensure that it's in our favour.’
‘How can we ensure that?’ asked Chandini, ‘Polls are carried out
by newspapers and magazines. We don't own them!’
‘Get your own private agency to carry out a poll. Newspapers thatare starved for
content shall be quite happy to publish the results aslong as they can claim that they
commissioned the study themselves.’
‘Even so, we can't control the outcome!’
‘Use the conjurer's fourth card.’
‘Huh? What's that?’
‘When a conjurer shuffles the cards and asks you to pick a card,
he already knows which card he wants you to pick—and you do, infact, end up picking
the card that he wants you to. Opinion polls arelike that. You structure them such that
the respondent answers exactly the way you want him to.’
‘But what's the fourth card?’
‘Surveys should be conducted as four-question polls specificallytailored to the subject
being interviewed. Never publish the preceding three questions—only the results of the
fourth. They're the onlyanswers that are relevant!’
The woman pollster stopped the shopper just as she was exiting the
grocery store.
‘Question One: As a woman, do you think our gender has been exploited
and discriminated against by men?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Two: Do you think men have monopolised power to thedetriment of women?’

Yes.’
‘Question Three: Do you think it's high time a strong woman wasat the helm of affairs,
not just in the state, but also at the Centre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Four: Do I take it that you would be willing to supporta bid by Chandini Gupta
to give greater representation to women?’
‘Yes.’
The Brahmin interviewer was asking a Brahmin teacher:
‘Question One: As a Brahmin, do you think upper castes have beenleft uncared for by
politicians?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Two: Do you think reservations in education and em
ployment have resulted in Brahmins being left out from remunerative
opportunities?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Three: Do you believe it's time for someone to speak upfor the rights of
Brahmins?’
Yes.’
‘Question Four: Do I take it that you would be willing to supporta bid by Chandini Gupta
to give greater voice to Brahmins?’
‘Yes.’
The Dalit survey agent was in the slum. He asked his Dalit subject:
‘Question One: As a Dalit, do you think years of discriminationand untouchability have
resulted in Dalits continuing to be inadequately protected?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Two: Do you think reservations in education and employment need to be
increased for scheduled castes and tribes?’
‘Yes.’

‘Question Three: Do you believe it's time for someone to demand greater
representation for the Dalits?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Four: Do I take it you would be willing to support a bidby Chandini Gupta to
give greater impetus to Dalit progress?’
‘Yes.’
The young polling executive approached the university student.
‘Question One: As a youngster, do you think the youth of ourcountry have been denied
sufficient voice in the future of our nation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Two: Do you think the financial security of your generation
is being mortgaged by older politicians running up massivedeficits?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Three: Do you believe it's time for the next generation
to be in the driver's seat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Four: Do I take it you would be willing to support a bidby Chandini Gupta to
put the youth of this country in control?’
‘Yes.’
The Muslim interviewer was outside the mosque. Friday prayers hadjust concluded.
uestion One: As a Muslim, are you worried about the fact thatyou're a minority in a
Hindu-majority nation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Two: Do you believe that successive governments haveignored Muslim
progress?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question Three: Do you think it's time for Muslims to electsomeone who speaks for
them?’
Yes.’

‘Question Four: Do I take it you would be willing to support a bidby Chandini Gupta to
put Muslim issues on the table?
‘Yes.’
Chandini smiled as she watched the evening news. ‘Earlier this week,the Observer
published the results of a CFC opinion poll it commissioned
regarding the general mood of Uttar Pradesh voters on the eve of Lok Sabha polls.
The survey found that a majority were dissatisfied
by government apathy in New Delhi and believed that theABNS and Chandini Gupta's
bid to play a role at the Centre must besupported. This is the first time ever that
identical results have beenobtained across castes, communities, genders and ages.
“An overwhelming
majority of the electorate seems to think the ABNS underChandini Gupta can deliver
better results by having a voice at theCentre,” said the CFC spokesman releasing the
opinion poll resultsyesterday.’
‘What kind of agency is CFC?’ Chandini asked her secretary.
‘I have no idea. Shall I check with Menon?’
‘Yes. He would know. Gangasagarji had spearheaded the effort,’
said Chandini.
A few minutes later the secretary entered Chandini's office smiling.
‘I found out the full name of CFC for you. Menon had it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Conjurer's Fourth Card.’
‘I need astrologers like you to predict a massive win for our party,’
explained Gangasagar to the startled man. He had been pulled offthe pavement where
he sat conning poor suckers into believing thatincredible riches, unbelievable good
luck, fame and fortune were onthe way.
‘I am not famous, sir. No one will believe me,’ pleaded the astrologer.

‘Leave that to me. I have arranged an interview for you today witha prominent
newspaper in Lucknow. You need to predict that a cabinet
reshuffle is on the way in Uttar Pradesh.’
‘But I don't know that!’
‘Now you do. I'm speaking to the chief minister today and she willensure that a minor
reshuffle happens tomorrow. Unlike your kind,
I always avoid prophesying too soon beforehand. It's much better toprophesy after the
event has already been ensured. Now, once thereshuffle happens, you shall give
another interview.’
‘And what shall I say?’ asked the bewildered man.
‘You shall predict a bumper harvest this year.’
‘But I don't know that!’
‘Now you do. I have a confidential report of the agriculture ministry.
The report shall be made public the day after your interview.
That's when you shall give your third interview.’
‘And what shall I say then?’ he asked predictably.
‘You shall predict unexpected rains in Allahabad.’
‘But I don't know that!’
‘Yes you do. I have arranged for a small aircraft to seed theclouds over the Ganges
with silver iodide. There shall be unexpectedshowers on the day after your prediction.
The press and public shallbelieve anything and everything you say by then. That's
when youshall offer your fourth interview.’
‘And what shall I say during this fourth interview?’

‘You shall predict an overwhelming victory for the ABNS andChandini.’
‘But I don't know that!’
‘Neither do I, but I hope that your prediction comes true.’
Allahabad, situated at the confluence of the Ganges and Yamunarivers, was tense.
Inside the Old City, revelling Hindu youngsters hadthrown alcohol on Muslims. In
anger, some ill-advised Muslim boyshad left cuts of beef on the steps of the Ganges
riverbank. The sparkignited, Allahbad had roared into a frenzy of violence.
The chief minister of Uttar Pradesh—Chandini Gupta—hadsummoned the new police
chief. Chandini wanted to know what action
was being taken by the police to prevent further rioting. Gangasagar sat on one of the
visitors’ chairs while the chief occupied theother.
‘The situation is in control, ma'am,’ said the police chief. ‘Threebattalions of riot police
wearing riot gear marched into the city andused teargas to disperse unruly mobs. They
were attacked by stonesand bricks but were quickly able to gain control over key areas
of thecity. Most of the area is in control except for the Old City, where itmay take us
another few days to restore normalcy.’
‘Deaths or casualties?’ asked Chandini.
‘No deaths, a few casualties though. The toll would have beenhigher if an anonymous
tip-off had not resulted in us sending the battalions
into the Old City in advance.’
‘Fear,’ said Gangasagar suddenly changing the direction of the

conversation.
‘What was that, sir?’ asked the chief.
‘Fear! We need order to be restored today—not tomorrow or theday after. Create fear.
Fear of the law,’ said Gangasagar emphatically.
‘But sir, curfew has been declared and we await your ordersfor lifting restrictions. We
can achieve results without resorting todrastic measures.’
‘Do what I say. I need the chief minister to address a public meeting
in Allahabad by tomorrow.’
‘But sir—’
‘I think that the new police chief has done a commendable job,
chief minister,’ said Gangasagar smoothly, ‘but sometimes situationslike these require
an emotional appeal rather than batons and teargas.’
‘Sir, it would not be advisable to visit Allahabad at this moment.
It is a powder keg that can explode,’ spluttered the chief.
‘You're there to protect the chief minister, aren't you, chief? Ordo we need to search for
a new man who can adequately ensure the
safety and security of the chief minister when she wishes to meet herbeloved citizens?’
asked Gangasagar in almost a whisper.

‘We shall protect her, sir,’ said the police chief as he realised thatthe decision had
been already taken.
‘O beloved people of Prayag—the great city where Brahma offereda sacrifice after
creating the world. O favoured citizens of Allahabad—
the city renamed by Akbar after his own great new religion,
Din-i-Ilahi. O great men and women of Kosambi—the greatest centreof Buddhism. I am
honoured to be here among all of you today,’ shesaid, cleverly addressing the Hindu,
Muslim and Buddhist elementsof the city. ‘I stand before you today as a shining
secular example ofa daughter of a Hindu biological father and a Muslim adoptive
father.
I represent the two great faiths of this land and it is my honestpledge to you that I shall
die before allowing anyone to ever splitthis great nation along religious lines!’ Chandini
thundered.
The chief of the ABNS Allahabad district committee had organisedthe rally. Upon the
dais sat Ikram, Gangasagar, the ABNS Lok Sabhacandidate for Allahabad, as well as
several assorted functionaries.
A local band played soul-stirring and patriotic Bollywood songs aslocal party workers
came up on stage one by one and garlandedthe bigwigs seated alongside the rostrum.
Tens of thousands of supporters
had braved the blazing heat and the fear of riots to sit inthe open field and hear
promises from their beloved representatives—
promises that would in all probability be broken.
Across the field, exactly opposite the stage upon which thepoliticos sat was another
stage that had been set up with effigies ofthe major Opposition leaders. Unbeknownst
to the public was thefact that each of the likenesses had been built with firecrackers.
Welcoming

ceremonies over, Chandini stood up and walked forward tocentre stage. An assistant
brought her an ornate bow and arrow thatshe lifted and held up as though she were
aiming it at the statuesacross the field. As she aimed, the pyrotechnics were
unleashed and each of the effigies was methodically exploded. The crowd wentwild—
cheering Chandini and howling with approval as she shouted,
‘Let's direct our energy towards destroying those who would like todivide us. Let's
usher in a new era of peace and brotherhood. Let'savoid a quarrel between the past
and the present—it can only end updestroying the future!’
Gangasagar glowed with optimism. He winked at Ikram. So muchcould be achieved
with a quart of rum and a pound of beef. Andpeople thought that elections were
expensive! He took a deep breathand began chanting softly, ‘Adi Shakti, Namo
Namah; Sarab Shakti,
Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti;
Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
About 2300 years ago
‘W
‘W
ith Sinharan on the throne of Mallayrajya, we now have akingdom in which we can
station our soldiers,’ said Chanakya.
‘Yes,’ answered Chandragupta sadly, ‘with my father's passingaway in Pipplivan last
year, we should now consolidate our forces under
Ambhi's former commander.’
Chanakya understood the grief of a son who had lost his father.
At least Chanakya had been able to perform the last rites of his own.
Chandragupta had not. But Chanakya also knew that they did nothave the luxury of
grief. ‘Chandragupta, we cannot afford to losePaurus as an ally. You will need his help
to fight Dhanananda,’ hesaid.
‘But Paurus is angry with us. We've snatched away Mallayrajya,
part of his network of vassal states. Why will he discuss any strategicalliance with us?’
asked Chandragupta incredulously.
‘Because he's aristocratic, angry, proud and vain. These are qualities
which make it rather easy to manipulate a human being,’ repliedChandragupta's
acharya complacently.

‘So we flatter him into an alliance?’ asked Chandragupta.
‘If a man tells a woman she's beautiful, she'll overlook most of his
other lies! We simply need to treat Paurus as one would a beautifulwoman,’ laughed
Chanakya.
‘And what if he doesn't take the bait?’ asked Chandragupta, prodding
Chanakya for explanation.
‘We then pander to his ambitions of power, fame and glory—hisburning desire to be
the most powerful ruler in Bharat.’

‘And how will we do that? We don't have anything of substance tobribe him with,’
observed Chandragupta grimly.
‘Simple. I can offer him the throne of Magadha, instead of offeringit to you,’ said
Chanakya slyly.
Chandragupta knelt before his teacher and said sombrely, ‘I shallwillingly serve you in
whatever capacity you deem fit. But I refuse toserve under the vain and petty Paurus!’
Chanakya burst out laughing at this display of principled anguish.
‘I only said that I would offer it to him. I never said that I wouldgive it to him. You should
pay more attention to my choice of words,
Chandragupta. This is a treaty with Paurus that I shall knowinglybreak!’ he said.
The utterly perplexed Chandragupta spoke up hesitantly.
‘Wouldn't it be better to be honest with him and tell him that
we need his support to take Magadha? We could offer him a fewprovinces but not the
throne.’
‘He sees you as an upstart, O Chandragupta. He will not valueyou as an ally. It's better
to sign a treaty with him and let him buildcastles in the air, thinking that he shall rule
Magadha. Once our goalhas been achieved, Paurus will become expendable.’
‘And how will you explain your betrayal to him,’ asked Chandragupta.
‘Remember that it's often easier to get forgiveness rather than permission!’
said Chanakya, a wide grin on his ugly face. ‘I shall speakto my good friend Indradutt,
Paurus's prime minister, to intercede onmy behalf and convince the great king that it's
in his best interest toally with Chanakya.’

‘Doesn't an alliance with Chanakya mean an alliance with
Chandragupta?’ asked the puzzled prince.
‘Ah. We need to change that. You and I shall fight and go our separate
ways,’ responded Chanakya.

‘I could never fight with you, acharya. Your wish is my command.
Even if you asked me to lay down my life for you, I would. How canI ever dream of
going against your wishes?’
‘Relax, Chandragupta. I'm talking about the power of illusion. Wemust create the
illusion that you and I have fallen apart—a difference
of opinion. This will allow me to convince Paurus that I trulyintend to instal him on the
seat of Magadha's power!’
‘And what do I do till such time?’ asked Chandragupta uncomfortably.
‘Stir up a revolt!’ said Chanakya, thumping the ground where hewas seated and
sending up a little dust storm.
‘Stir up a revolt? Where?’ asked the hapless Chandragupta.
‘The Macedonian provinces—the ones ruled directly by Alexander's
satraps.’
‘Which ones?’
‘All of them. As you know, most of northern Bharat is either partof Magadha, Kaikey or
Gandhar. But what about the small states thataren't part of these three large blocs?
Alexander's satrap Phillipos,
who reports to the powerful Seleucus—Alexander's chosen successorin Bharat—
directly rules all of them. If Phillipos were to die, theirprovinces would fall into our laps
without effort on our part.’

‘Acharya, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?’
asked the weary and wary Chandragupta. These strategising sessionswith his guru
sapped him of all his energy.
‘No, no, dear Chandragupta. We shall not kill Phillipos. We shallmerely identify his
worst enemies and provide them with just causeto assassinate him!’
‘And who is his biggest enemy?’ asked Chandragupta, aware thatthe question was
unnecessary.
‘His biggest friend and ally.’

‘Ambhi?’
‘No.’
‘Paurus?’
‘No.’
‘Then who?’
‘Sasigupta.’
‘Who?’
‘Magadha covers a substantial portion of eastern Bharat. To its
west lies Kaikey. Travel further westwards and you reach Gandhar.
But who lives beyond Gandhar, to the extreme northwest—beyondthe Indus?’ asked
Chanakya.
‘The Ashvakans—the tribal horsemen of the Kabul River region.’
‘Correct. They are strong and fierce warriors. Their primarystrength lies not only in their
innate capacity to carry on a sustainedfight with very little food, water or rest, but also
in their talent tobreed, raise and train the finest ashvas—horses—in the region.
Theirleader is Sasigupta. Do you remember the day Alexander came toSage
Dandayan's hermitage? Sasigupta was with him—helping himinterpret the sage's
words.’
‘You want me to go enlist his support?’ asked Chandragupta innocently.
‘No, my brave warrior, no! The Ashvakans are mercenaries. For aprice, they will
provide thousands of cavalry to anyone, irrespectiveof their own political beliefs. They
fought on behalf of the Persiansand subsequently also fought for the Macedonians.
They have no permanent

loyalty to any one side. Training horses and fighting battles
is simply an occupation, nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Which side are they fighting for presently?’
‘The Macedonian side. But not too long ago they were allied withthe Persians. So why
should they hesitate to switch sides again?’
asked Chanakya.

‘But what would cause Sasigupta to rebel? As I understand, he wasalso present at
Alexander's Jhelum victory over Paurus. When Ambhifailed to bring Paurus before
Alexander after the battle was over, itwas Sasigupta who succeeded in doing so.’
‘But on whose orders did Sasigupta fight for Alexander?’ askedChanakya.
Chandragupta was stumped. Chanakya smiled and resumed. ‘TheAshvakans are
fierce warriors but they take their orders from women!
Their chief is always a queen. The present one is a stunningbeauty called Kalapini.
Any danger or threat to her and you'd havethousands of enraged Ashvakans ready to
die in a blink!’
‘You want me to kidnap their queen?’ asked Chandragupta, halfexpecting an
affirmative response. He knew that his cunning teacherwas capable of almost anything
as long as it advanced his aims ofinstalling him on Magadha's throne.
‘More than that! I need you to arrange for her to have an affairwith Phillipos, the
Macedonian satrap. Nothing will get Ashvakanblood boiling as much as the thought of
their queen sleeping with aMacedonian man!’
‘And how do I arrange that? By kidnapping them both and barricading
them inside a tent?’ asked an exasperated Chandragupta.
‘Do you want a one-word answer?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Cornelia.’

Cornelia and Chandragupta were lying on a soft cotton sheet thathad been spread
under the wide branches of a giant simsapa tree in acorner of a sylvan grove with
ashoka, bhavya, champaka and nagaratrees in blossom. The ground lay heaped with
fragrant flowers thathad fallen off the branches. Chandragupta and Cornelia lay sideby
side. The bodyguards that accompanied Cornelia wherever shewent had been offered
some cold milk sweetened with honey by

Chandragupta's men. The light refreshing drink had been seasonedwith crushed hemp
for the extra zing. Within minutes, they hadpassed out under a banyan, snoring
peacefully.
‘I simply adore you,’ murmured Chandragupta into her ear as heabsentmindedly ran
his fingers through her golden hair.
She smiled at him. ‘Liar! You adore being with me so that you canplay your naughty
games,’ she admonished.
Chandragupta thought about it for a moment, smiled wickedlyand said, ‘That too!’ as
she playfully slapped his cheek in mock punishment.
‘Darling, I cannot bear to be away from you for even a moment,’
said Cornelia as she reached up to hold him even closer. ‘It worriesme that my father
will find out about us and will call me back toBabylonia. How will I live without you?’
‘Seleucus is stationed far away, darling. It's hardly likely that hewould know about the
wanton life of his precious daughter who decided
to stay back in Bharat,’ offered Chandragupta comfortingly.
‘I wish to marry you, Chandragupta. There's no man I've lovedmore. Why must we go
through this unbearable secrecy each time tobe with one another?’
‘Your father will have no option but to offer your hand in marriage
to me—I shall make sure of that. But for that to happen, I mustbe king of Magadha.
You shall be part of a political treaty—the prizethat I long for, my sweet Cornelia.’
‘And how will that happen? Besides installing your classmate Sinharan

on the throne of a modest kingdom, what else have you andthe acharya actually
achieved? It may take ages for you to becomeemperor and by that time you may not
even be able to perform!’ sheteased.
‘Sweetheart. Let's get married right here, right now!’ said
Chandragupta suddenly serious, taking her completely by surprise.
‘How? No fire? No priest? No guests?’ asked an intrigued Cornelia.

‘In our ancient Hindu scriptures there are eight types of marriage.
One of them—legally recognised by the scribes—is known as a Gandharva
Vivah. It's a simple secret ceremony between man and womanwith no third party
present. We simply garland each other, exchangevows, kiss, and there you have it. It's
done!’
‘But I can't come and live with you, Chandragupta. My father willslay us both. He'll get
very angry if I'm seen to be going against hiswishes,’ argued Cornelia.
‘I agree. Our marriage should remain secret. You should continueto live your life
independently until we get married officially. Atleast we'll live in the comfort of knowing
that we're betrothed,’ saidChandragupta with a twinkle in his eyes. He quickly took off
hissilken shoulder wrap and efficiently tore from it two thin strips. Hebegan picking up
the flowers that lay strewn on the grass and tyingthem, using small knots to the silk.
Cornelia started on the secondgarland. Within a few minutes they were both holding
crude butlove-inspired garlands, eagerly waiting to put them around each other's
necks.
Both stood up and faced one another. Chandragupta tenderlyplaced his garland
around Cornelia's neck and, holding her face, said,
‘My dearest, sweetest love. I promise to worship you for the rest ofmy life. I shall
protect you with my life and shall always honour andcherish you. From this day
onwards you're my wife, before the eyesof God.’ With tears in her eyes at the intensity
of the moment, Cornelia
placed her garland around Chandragupta and whispered, ‘Myhusband, my life, my
love. Nothing has ever given me more joy thanto wed you. I promise to be ever faithful
to you and to always respectand obey you. You are, and always shall be, my one and
only truelove.’

Chandragupta pulled her towards him, took her in his arms andkissed her with ardent
passion. He hadn't comprehended that obeying
his acharya's wishes would be so much fun. He wondered at whatpoint the acharya's
instructions had ended and his love for Corneliahad begun.

As husband and wife embraced under the simsapa tree, Corneliaasked, ‘Now that
we're married secretly, what needs to be done tomake it official?’
‘A political treaty between Chandragupta and Seleucus,’ repliedher husband.
‘Why would my father sign such an alliance with you?’
‘If he saw himself losing his grip on his provinces in Bharat. Betterto be friend than foe
to the king who's gaining control.’
‘And why would my father lose control over his Bharat dominions?’
‘Because of Ambhi's fear, Paurus's greed and Sasigupta's anger.’
‘Ambhi's fear?’
‘Ambhi lies sandwiched between Sasigupta and Paurus. He will befearful of another
battle.’
‘And Paurus's greed?’
‘His insatiable pride that needs to be fed. His lust for the throne ofMagadha shall be his
downfall.’
‘And Sasigupta's anger?’
‘Over his betrayal.’
‘Betrayal by who?’

‘Phillipos, the Macedonian governor appointed by your father.’
‘But Phillipos has not betrayed him.’
‘He will though.’
‘Why?’
‘If Phillipos were to fall in love with Kalapini, the Ashvakanqueen, the Ashvakans
headed by Sasigupta would revolt. They wouldsee it as the ultimate betrayal.’
‘But my darling Chandragupta, how can one make people fall inlove? Love simply
happens. It can't be forced!’

‘But one can make a start by getting two people to meet each other.
I'm told that Phillipos has a roving eye. Get them to meet and letdestiny take over!’
‘You want me to get involved in this roguish scheme?’
‘Hah! You're right. I'm using you. But I do need you to help themmeet, Cornelia. You
know everyone in society. Visit Phillipos andtake Kalapini along as a friend. She's
supposed to be gorgeous,’ saidChandragupta.
‘I thought that we just took vows that we would be faithful to oneanother,’ she joked,
mildly annoyed to hear another woman beingdescribed as beautiful by her own
husband.
‘That's why it's better that you organise her engagement so thatshe becomes
unavailable to me,’ quipped Chandragupta.
‘Get out at once! I should never have spent my life trying to tutoryou—you're an
ungrateful wretch!’ shouted Chanakya, smilingbroadly at Chandragupta.
‘You've trained me well, O guru. In fact, my training shall now beused for one purpose
alone—to bring about your downfall!’ shoutedback Chandragupta, trying his best not to
laugh.
‘How dare you speak to me like that? I'm your teacher. I haveevery right to be angry.
Sinharan has been like your brother and youhave the temerity to question his right
over the throne of Mallayrajya?’
shot back Chanakya, gesturing to Chandragupta that he shouldstick to the prepared
script in front of him.

‘You promised me that I would be king. Instead you're busy striking
up an alliance between Paurus and Sinharan. Shame on you,
acharya! I hadn't realised that you would stoop so low. Is there nolimit to the depths
you can sink to? You would swindle your owndisciple and offer the throne to the
haughty Paurus? Damn you, mylord. Curses be upon you!’ roared Chandragupta as he
tried to keeppace with the dialogue prepared by his guru.

‘I want you to leave immediately. You have no place here. Forgetyour dreams about
becoming emperor of Magadha. You're unfit, unwise,
uncouth and ungrateful. Get out!’ shrieked Chanakya, as he signalled
for Chandragupta to leave the room.
Chandragupta stormed out of his teacher's room as the men
looked on. The end of a promising partnership, they thought to themselves,
as they saw their military leader stomping off and their strategic
leader sulking in a corner.
Within minutes, a young man scurried out of Chanakya's campto meet Abhaya, the
intelligence chief of Paurus. This was startlingnews. He would be paid very well for
information of such magnitude.
What he couldn't understand was why the acharya had allowedChandragupta to take
with him his entire garrison of soldiers of fortune.
‘O glorious King, Chanakya comes before you to seek your help,’
said the hideous Brahmin, as he sat down on the seat offered by themajestic and
suave Paurus opposite him. Indradutt sat next to Chanakya.
‘Acharya, I've heard wonderful stories about your razor-sharp intelligence,
your expansive knowledge, your uncanny ability to predict
outcomes as well as your unbounded determination. But aren'tyou here because
you've simply fallen out with Chandragupta?’
asked Paurus, feeling rather grand for being aware of such vital information.

Chanakya put on his best forlorn look and said, ‘There can be nosecrets from you, O
mighty Paurus. You have eyes and ears everywhere.
Yes, indeed I've had a difference of opinion with Chandragupta.
But I am not here because I fell out with Chandragupta; rather,
I fell out with him because I planned to meet you.’
Paurus nodded sagely. He was sure Chanakya was telling him thetruth. Abhaya had
revealed that the cause of the dispute between theacharya and his star pupil was the
fact that Chanakya wanted to of

fer the throne of Magadha to him—the illustrious Paurus—and notto Chandragupta.
‘Why should I trust you, acharya? Your machinations resulted inmy ally, the king of
Mallayrajya, being overthrown by his nephewSinharan,’ goaded Paurus, hoping to elicit
an outburst.
‘Yes, indomitable king. I took back for Sinharan what was rightfully
his. In my place, you would have done exactly the same.
However, to answer your question— why should you trust
me—please call for the visitor who waits outside,’ said Chanakya.
Indradutt asked the orderly to bring inside the acharya's guest.
Within a few moments, the orderly ushered in a young man, attiredin silken robes,
precious gems and all the usual trappings of royalty.
It was the newly crowned king of Mallayrajya—Sinharan. He walkedup to Paurus, knelt
before him, and said ‘O magnificent Emperor, Ihave no quarrel with you. Mallayrajya
was, and shall continue to remain,
your unflinching ally. My conflict was with my uncle who hadusurped the throne in a
treacherous manner. That matter has sincebeen resolved. Please let me have your
blessings, O heroic King.’
Paurus was trying his best to maintain his indifferent and impartial
manner, but Chanakya knew that he had succeeded in pandering
to the king's vanity. If Paurus had been a peacock, his featherswould have puffed out
entirely! It was so much easier to handle conceited
and arrogant monarchs than the ones who had no pretensionsof greatness. ‘Rise,
Sinharan. Come and sit next to me,’ said Paurus,
completely swayed by events.
‘What is it that you have in mind, acharya?’ asked Paurus, onceSinharan was seated.

‘With over two hundred thousand infantry, eighty thousand cavalry,
eight thousand chariots and six thousand war elephants,
Magadha remains the most powerful military might in the world.
Even the combined strength of the great Paurus and his allies—including
Sinharan—will be inadequate to force Magadha intoa state of
submission. If the magnificent Parvateshwar is to occupy

the throne of Magadha, we shall need your might and my cunning,’
began Chanakya.
‘I have no use for cunning,’ interrupted the haughty Paurus.
‘Of what use was your might before Alexander?’ reminded Chanakya
gently. ‘Take my advice, magnificent conqueror of the mountains,
and you shall certainly be emperor of Magadha.’
‘And Chandragupta?’
‘I've no use for disciples who do not respect their teachers. I'vetaught him everything
that he knows and this is the thanks I get? Lethim rot in hell!’
‘All right, acharya, I commit myself to your goals. We shall eithertake Magadha or
attain heaven while attempting to do so!’ announced
Paurus grandly.
‘Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die,’ saidChanakya simply.
‘Let him rot in hell!’ shouted Sasigupta, as the news was confirmed.
He was seated in the grand hall of his fort at Pir-Sar, in the heartof the Swat valley. He
had helped Alexander take the fort and thiswas the thanks that the Macedonian
bastards gave him? News hadfiltered in that their queen, Kalapini, had decided to stay
on withPhillipos—Alexander's satrap in Bharat. He had been informed oftheir torrid
affair some weeks ago by his spies but had imagined thatit was one of Kalapini's
temporary bouts of sexual insatiability. Herdecision to stay on with Phillipos was an
entirely different matterthough.

He looked across the low beaten-silver table at his new friend
and comrade, Chandragupta, as they each took a gulp of maireyafrom their goblets.
The potent brew had started affecting Sasigupta'sspeech, and his words were slurred.
‘D—d—do you know, Ch—Chandragupta, that y— you and Iactually have the very
same name? Sss—sasi m—m—m—means

m—m—moon, and sss—so d—does Ch—chandra. We're
b—b—brothers!’ said Sasigupta, banging down his goblet so hardthat the maireya
splashed out on the silver tabletop. Chandragupta,
who had only consumed a few sips, was stone sober. This was an excellent
opportunity to stoke the fire of rebellion.
The grand old fort at Pir-Sar was rich but gloomy. It had been aterrible winter during
which Alexander had decided to take Pir-Saronce and for all. As a boy growing up in
Macedonia, Alexander hadbeen narrated the story of his illustrious ancestor, Heracles,
who hadmarched as far as Pir-Sar but had eventually been unable to capturethe fort.
Alexander was determined that he would outdo Heracles
and become a historical legend. Besides, capturing Pir-Sar wouldhelp neutralise the
threat to his supply lines, which were painfullystretched over the Hindu Kush to Balkh.
The fort of Pir-Sar lay northof Attock in the Punjab, on a mountain spur above narrow
gorges ina bend of the upper Indus. The mountain was gifted with a flat summit
irrigated by natural springs and was certainly broad enough togrow adequate crops.
Pir-Sar could not be starved into submission.
Had it not been for Sasigupta, Alexander would never have beenable to capture it. At
his suggestion, Alexander had reinforced aneighbouring spur to the west. Using this as
a base, Alexander hadasked his men to bridge the ravine along the northern face of
thefort—which happened to be the most vulnerable side as revealed bySasigupta.
After three days of intense battle, which included massiveboulders being flung down
upon the Macedonian army by soldierswithin the fort, Alexander and Sasigupta had
finally succeeded inhauling themselves up over the last and final rock face as the
restof the Macedonian army went about massacring fugitives. Alexanderhad erected
victory altars to Athena and Nike and then pursued hisonward journey to battle Paurus.
Pir-Sar had been critical to his success because it had established

Alexander's reputation for invincibility. More often than not, it waspeople's awe of his
immortality and tenacity that preceded him infurther conquests into Bharat.

Sasigupta stammered ‘I h—h—handed over th—th— this
f—f—fucking f—f—fort and the r—rest of Bharat to the Macedonianson a p—p—platter
and the p—p— pieces of sh—sh—shit rewardm—m—me by f—f—f— fucking the
queen of the Ashvakans?’ TheAshvakan queen, after all, was a living female deity that
the fiercetribal warriors sought inspiration and guidance from. Sasigupta wastheir
commander, but their source of strength was Kalapini.
Wise
men
think
all
they
say,
fools
say
all
they
think.
Chandraguptacould almost hear Chanakya mouthing the words into his ears.
Chandragupta measured his words carefully and after some deliberation
he spoke. ‘Sasigupta, you're my friend. I have a plan, if you'reinterested.’
The fierce, independent, strong and resilient Afghans who inhabited
the rugged mountains along the Kabul River derived theirname from their ancestors
who lived there—the Ashvakans. They
were Indo-Aryans who specialised in breeding and traininghorses—known as Ashva
in Sanskrit. Their strength in battle as wellas their skill in riding horses was in demand
from all sides— Persia,

Greece and Bharat. Sasigupta was their leader. He had altered thecourse of
Alexander's campaign in Bharat by switching sides—havingoriginally fought for Darius
on the Persian front.
Sasigupta was a ruggedly handsome man. Tall and muscular, witha stomach a taut as
a drum, he had extremely fair skin and greeneyes. His long chestnutbrown hair was
intertwined with lengths ofsilk and was tied up in a conch-shell-shaped knot towards
the frontof his head. His rich beard and warrior moustache gave him a military
bearing. His high turban embellished with rubies was a darkmidnight-blue and covered
his knotted tuft. It matched his flowingwoollen robe of the same colour. Strung around
his neck were stringsof pearls. He wore a thick crimson sash around his waist in
whichwas tucked a diamond-handled scimitar. He was indeed a formidable
example of male beauty.
His masculinity was a gift from his ancestors who had instituteda special ritual known
as the Ashvamedha
Yajna. A strong horsewould be prayed to by the king and would then be left free to
gallop

through various lands with the king's army following in close pursuit.
Chiefs of the lands that were wandered into by the horse couldeither submit to the king
or choose to fight. If defeated, they had toaccept his suzerainty.
When Alexander first tried to subdue Sasigupta and his ferociouscombatants, he knew
that he had finally met his match. In a letterto his mother, Alexander wrote,‘I am in a
land of a lion-like brave
people, where every inch of ground is like a wall of steel, confrontingmy soldiers. You
have brought only one Alexander into the world,
but each man in this land can be called an Alexander.’ Alexander had
thought it prudent to win over Sasigupta and his untamed championsrather than fight
them. His decision had not proved wrong. Sasiguptanot only helped him acquire Pir-
Sar but also provided thousands ofcavalrymen to serve in the Macedonian army, for a
price of course.
‘You have thousands of cavalrymen serving under Phillipos. Getthem to revolt. Let
them refuse to serve a master who defiles their
goddess,’ suggested Chandragupta. The idea had been Chanakya's,
but Chandragupta was quite happy to pass it off as his own.
‘But Phillipos might order executions in order to enforce discipline,’
countered Sasigupta.
‘That's precisely what we want him to do,’ remarked Chandragupta
smiling at his new friend.
Phillipos's fortified military camp lay quiet at this hour. All four gatesto the massive
rectangular raised enclosure were sealed shut for thenight. The perimeter of the camp,

protected by a ditch three metreswide and two metres deep, consisted of a very high
palisade constructed
from sharpened wooden stakes. Sentinels stood on guard atmultiple points around the
fencing while duty sergeants took frequent
rounds to check that sentinels were not dozing off on the job.
From the main gate in the centre of one of the two shorterwalls ran the principal road
of the camp, eighteen metres wide,
bisecting the camp into two long, rectangular halves. Running at

ninety degrees to this avenue was a subsidiary road, fifteen metreswide, which
effectively quartered the camp. At the intersection ofthese two thoroughfares, at the
centre of the camp, stood its largesttent—that of the commanding general, Phillipos. In
close proximityto Phillipos's tent stood those of his immediate subordinates. Beyondlay
rows and rows of barracks shared by the enlisted men, two hundred
and twenty men to an acre.
The entrance to Phillipos's tent was illuminated by two massiveflaming torches that
were fastened in the ground on either side of theentry flap. Two expressionless Hoplite
sentinels, holding six-feet-longspears with sharp iron heads fixed on shafts of ash
wood, guardedthe tent zealously. Their faces did not register or react to the soundsthat
emanated from within as Phillipos made hectic love to his newest
conquest, the Ashvakan queen, Kalapini.
The loyal Macedonian guards could hear in the distance a lowrumble that seemed to
get louder every few minutes. Although theywere curious about the distant roar, their
training prevented themfrom moving away from their duty-roster-designated spots.
Everyfew minutes their attention would alternate between the moans from
within the tent and the growling from the camp's invisible horizons.
Phillipos's guards, who were on duty at the sole westfacing entrance,
did not realise that their master's tent was on fire until the
heat from the blaze seared the hairs on their necks. They turnedaround quickly to
respond to the startled cries from within but fellbackwards as a volley of arrows caught
them in the back. As a nakedand frightened Phillipos ran out, followed by an equally
nude Kalapini,
the gathered Ashvakan cavalrymen surrounded the Macedoniansatrap, caught hold of
him, tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded

him. Meanwhile, another lot covered Kalapini with a blanketto protect her modesty and
threw her into the arms of a mountedhorseman who immediately galloped away
towards the camp exit.
‘Filthy son of a whore!’ shouted the men angrily at Phillipos. ‘Youthought you could get
away with banging our queen and executing
our comrades? You shall die for this!’ Phillipos struggled desperately,
trying to free his hands from the ropes that cut into his wrists.

He tried to explain that his relationship with Kalapini was one ofmutual love, but the
fierce Ashvakan warriors were in no mood to
be lectured on the subtle differences between rape and fornication.
The news of Phillipos being attacked by the furious mercenaries ofSasigupta spread
like wildfire among the Macedonian troops. Theyrallied to the defence of their general
but were no match for the enraged
tribesmen. A Macedonian commander managed to break thecordon of Ashvakans
surrounding Phillipos. He lunged forward toliberate Phillipos, wrapped his arms around
the general and startedfuriously cutting away at the ropes that bound Phillipos's hands.
Before
he could release Phillipos, he coughed blood into the satrap'sface as a javelin brutally
pierced his lungs from behind.
The camp was thundering with the sound of hoofbeats as
Ashvakan horsemen rode through the main avenue hurling flamingbunches of grass
into tents. Several quarters were already ablaze asconfused Macedonian soldiers ran
outside only to be hacked mercilessly
to death.
A few yards away, standing atop a small hill, a band of horsemenobserved the flames
in the Macedonian camp and listened to theshouts and cries of the men who were
being slaughtered. Mountedon a muscular grey Kamboja steed, Sasigupta looked at
Chandragupta
who was seated on an Ucchaisrava stallion, white and of immense
muscular beauty. ‘I'm not sure whether we did the right thing,
Chandragupta,’ said Sasigupta, thoughtfully stroking his beard. ‘Thisis not in the
Ashvakan tradition of a formal call to arms. This is
bloodshed without honour!’

‘My dear friend, Sasigupta, where was the honour when youfought for Darius? Where
was the honour when you sold yourself toAlexander? Face the truth— Ashvakan
bravery has been more aboutcommercial interest than honour. What's happening now
is probably
the most honourable thing that you've ever done— raising yoursword against an alien
invader and protecting the dignity of yourqueen,’ said Chandragupta, fully briefed by
Chanakya on how to dealwith such last minute change of heart.

Chandragupta signalled to his expert archer whose all-metal arrow
had been following Phillipos's movements for the past fewminutes. Upon receiving a
nod from Chandragupta, he pulled backon the taut hemp string that held his massive
multilayered bamboobow in shape, ensured that the target was momentarily
stationaryand released his feathered missile. It whizzed past Chandragupta,
countless trees, the camp perimeter, Macedonian soldiers, andAshvakan cavalrymen,
before it met its mark. The sharp tip piercedthe skin of the intended victim and drew
blood. Thirsty for more, itplunged deeper until it could find a beating heart or pumping
lungto lodge in. The arrow wound to his chest succeeded in rupturing hislungs, rapidly
flooding them with his own blood, effectively drowning
him in his own plasma. As his heart continued to pump, his bloodwas forced up
through his airways and spurted from his mouth andnose. His eyes rolled back and he
fell backwards desperately wishingthat his life would end soon—and it did. Phillipos
was dead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Present Day
M
M
enon was reading the morning newspaper aloud to Ikrambhai.
Major Bedi, looking relaxed after six months of incessant electioneering,
sat in Gangasagar's living room sipping tea.
‘With a working majority in the Lok Sabha, the chairman of the victorious
alliance shall meet the President of India at 4 pm on Tuesdayto stake claim to form the
new government. This was decided unanimously
at a meeting of the alliance partners. The chairman's name wasproposed by the ruling
party and was seconded by Pandit GangasagarMishra, the president of the ABNS, one
of the largest alliance partnersof the ruling party.’
‘Hah! The
largest, not one
of
the largest!’ exclaimed Ikram as MajorBedi smiled. His formula of having no formula
had worked. He tookthe newspaper from Menon and continued reading. ‘The ABNS,
withsixtyfive MPs from Uttar Pradesh, is the largest constituent of the coalition
after the ruling party, which won two hundred seats. The coalition
has received letters of support from several smaller parties andnow has the backing of
around three hundred MPs, much more thanthe two hundred and seventy-two required
for a basic majority inthe Lok Sabha. The chairman of the alliance shall present a letter
tothe president providing details of the re-election of the prime minis-

ter—the former defence minister—as leader of the ruling party's delegation
to Parliament. He's also expected to hand over letters of support
received by his party from its coalition partners. The president islikely to extend an
invitation to the alliance to form the next government
at the Centre. The oath-taking ceremony is likely to be fixed forFriday at Rashtrapati
Bhavan.’

‘It's good that the total number of MPs supporting this governmentare three hundred,’
said Ikram.
‘Why? Because that puts them at twenty-eight more than thehalfway mark?’ asked
Menon.
‘No, because it puts them thirty-seven short of the halfway mark ifthe ABNS decides to
withdraw support!’ said Ikram, chewing on hispaan contentedly while Bedi chuckled.
He sat in the first row—next to Somany's victorious Prime Minister—
watching the scene unfolding at Rashtrapati Bhavan. The President
was administering the oath of office to Chandini. She was saying
‘I, Chandini Gupta, do swear in the name of God that I will beartrue faith and allegiance
to the Constitution of India as by law established,
that I will uphold the sovereignty and integrity of India, thatI will faithfully and
conscientiously discharge my duties as cabinetminister and that I will do right to all
manner of people in accordance
with the Constitution and the law without fear or favour, affection
or ill will.’
Her moving from state to central politics had created a vacuum inUttar Pradesh.
Agrawalji had asked, ‘Who shall we make chief minister?
I'm sure Ikram's still hoping that you'll offer the position to him.’
Gangasagar had replied, ‘Ikram knows that I plan on acquiring thehome portfolio
eventually for the ABNS— and him in particular. I'vetold him to lie low for a while. He'll
accept someone else from theABNS taking the chief minister's post in Uttar Pradesh.’

‘So whom do we appoint as chief minister for the remaining termof the state
government?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘Ram Shankar Dwivedi,’ answered Gangasagar.
‘But that's preposterous! The lecherous rogue inspired the local rebellion
against Chandini. He can't be trusted!’
‘On the contrary, Agrawalji. I trust him completely.’
‘Why?’

‘Because I still have twenty more photographs to return to him,’
laughed Gangasagar.
‘Gangasagarji, what are you thinking?’ whispered the former defenceminister—now
new Prime Minister— to him. Gangasagar realised hismind had wandered. ‘I am
wondering where Rungta is hiding. I cansee our mutual friend, Somany, in the
audience. Didn't you inviteRungta for the ceremony?’ he asked the premier.
‘I did, but I guess he's busy.’
‘With what?’
‘Finding some other minister to send down a ropeladder. If Somany
can get me to do it, Rungta can find someone too,’ said theprime minister,
smiling at the old man who had been the reason behind
his clambering down the chopper's ladder in Siachen. Gangasagar
laughed loudly. Everyone turned to look. He wasn't bothered.
He laughed some more.
‘The scumbag refuses to part with the finance, external affairs, defence
or home portfolios—the four key ministries. He says that thesenior partner of the ruling
alliance always holds these four postsalong with the post of prime minister. Doesn't he
realise he wouldn'tbe in government if it weren't for the support of the ABNS? So
muchfor having Somany's man as PM!’ complained Gangasagar as he gotup from his
chair and paced the room.
‘What do you want?’ asked Ikram.

‘I want Chandini to be minister for external affairs. The global exposure
would give her both national and international stature,’ saidGangasagar.
‘There's only one way you can achieve that. Create a crisis withinthe ministry of
external affairs. A crisis that forces the minister toresign,’ suggested Ikram.

‘That doesn't seem possible or probable. The minister for externalaffairs is an old
warhorse—and a careful one. He doesn't even coughwithout first checking to see if
anyone is within earshot. Moreover,
he's stark honest. Honesty is a most dreadful quality—it makespeople difficult to
manipulate,’ said an exasperated Gangasagar. Hesat down again and began to drum
the arms of his chair with his fingers.
‘There is another way,’ he said after a moment. ‘Sometimes, toscore a goal you have
to kick the ball away from the goalpost. Thepresent minister for external affairs is the
only one who could realistically
take over the finance portfolio if the finance minister wereto suddenly resign.’
‘And why would the finance minister do that?’ asked Ikram.
‘Ah! You see, unlike the minister for external affairs, he's not too
honest. It seems that while our friend Somany supported the previous
defence minister's bid for the top job, Rungta supported thefinance minister. Our
present PM hates the finance minister andwill be delighted to lose him from the
cabinet. We simply need toprovide him with the opportunity. Ikram, put your best boys
on thejob—discreetly. The finance minister is dangerous to mess with. He'llfeed us to
the crocodiles if he gets to know!’
The allocation of the rest of the ministerial portfolios, too, was atug-of-war.
Gangasagar demanded ten berths for the ABNS. He hadwanted external affairs for
Chandini but was willing to let her remain
a minister without portfolio until it could be arranged. In themeantime, he wanted
cabinet positions in commerce, telecom, petroleum

and agriculture although he was willing to settle for minister ofstate positions for the
other five ABNS MPs whose names were beingput forward.
Menon had asked him, ‘Why are you willing to settle for state positions
for fifty per cent of your ministerial strength? You should insiston ten cabinet berths.’

‘I'd rather negotiate for the positions that matter. By settling forfive I'm now in a position
to negotiate for getting our own peopleinto other positions of power— not necessarily
within the cabinet,’
said Gangasagar.
‘Such as?’
‘The directorship of the Intelligence Bureau; governorship of theReserve Bank of India;
and the chairman's position in the CentralBoard of Direct Taxes. So many of our
erstwhile student leaders arenow senior enough within the bureaucracy—Brijmohan
Rai from Allahabad
University, Iqbal Azmi from Aligarh Muslim University, Girish
Bajpai from Banaras Hindu University… but more importantly, Iwant to leave the door
open for Chandini to get external affairs.’
‘And why do you particularly want Cabinet positions in commerce,
telecom, petroleum and agriculture?’
‘Because our cabinet ministers shall spend the next two weekssniffing around for every
deal that was ever made within their departments,
thus giving me ammunition to use against the financeminister!’
Gangasagar and Chandini were at Udyog Bhawan, the headquartersof the department
of commerce. An ABNS man was now heading thedepartment as cabinet minister.
‘Land for Special Economic Zones was allotted to private companies
at meagre rates,’ said the commerce minister.
‘So what?’ asked Gangasagar, ‘That was as per government policy,

ight?’
‘Yes. Quantitatively, but not qualitatively.’
‘You've lost me,’ said Chandini.
‘The quantity of land acquired and passed on to developers was asper the policy.’
‘But?’ asked a curious Gangasagar.

‘The SEZ policy was framed in order to bring about developmentof arid wasteland. The
building of transport links, power plants,
water supply systems, and the addition of concentrated industrialand commercial hubs
were supposed to enhance land value. Instead,
prime land that was already well connected and developed was givenaway by the
commerce ministry without considering its intrinsicvalue. Thousands of acres of land
were given away to a single company,’
disclosed the commerce minister.
Gangasagar and Chandini were at Sanchar Bhawan, the headquartersof the
department of telecom. ‘Telecom licences were issued in anarbitrary fashion at fees
that were low, even going by ten-yearold
benchmarks,’ revealed the telecom minister, an old hand of the
ABNS.
‘Big deal. One could argue that one individual's perception ofvalue is different to
another's,’ argued Gangasagar.
‘But subsequently, the company that obtained the new spectrumallocations sold their
stake to outside investors for a huge profit,’ saidthe telecom minister.
‘Isn't it possible they enhanced shareholder value by building abusiness in the interim?’
suggested Chandini.
‘In twenty-four hours?’ asked the telecom minister quizzically.
Gangasagar and Chandini were at Shastri Bhawan, the headquartersof the ministry of
petroleum and natural gas. ‘Oil exploration rightswere handed out to a single company

for a value prescribed as perlaw,’ said the petroleum minister, an ABNS winner from
Bijnor constituency.
‘What's wrong with that?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘The exploration rights were handed out on 24 July.’
‘So?’

‘An internal memo shows that the exploration basin had alreadybeen drilled by the
public sector oil corporation.’
‘And?’
‘They had already discovered oil there on 23 July.’
Gangasagar and Chandini were at Krishi Bhawan, the headquartersof the ministry of
agriculture. The minister was Daula Hassan Bhatti,
Major Bedi's Muslim-Jat experiment in Meerut. He had won his election
with a margin of over two hundred thousand votes.
‘Large quantities of fodder and fertiliser were procured duringthe term of the previous
government,’ said the agriculture ministerquietly, afraid of being overheard by his
secretary.
‘That would be expected,’ send Chandini. ‘Any government thatwishes to hang on to
votes must subsidise fodder and fertiliser tokeep farmers happy.’
‘But did we subsidise fodder for cattle in America and western
Europe too?’ asked the agriculture minister.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘If I count the total head of cattle subsidised by the government, itadds up to the total
cattle population of India, America and westernEurope added together! They
subsidised farmers and cattle that didnot exist!’ revealed the agriculture minister.

‘Could any of these deals have happened without the finance minister's
complicity?’ asked Chandini. Ikram and Agrawalji shook theirheads. That would have
been impossible. Chandini and Gangasagarmulled over the revelations in silence. At
length she asked him,
‘What do you intend to do with this information? Reveal it to thepress and bring down
the government?’

‘On the contrary. Of what value is it to bring down this government
when we are in it? And that, too, so early in the day? Information
is only of value when it isn't in the public domain. I shall safeguard
it and use it to bargain,’ said the shrewd Pandit.
‘So you'll talk to the Prime Minister and secure the finance minister's
resignation on account of the four scams?’ asked Chandini.
‘No. I shall not secure the finance minister's resignation on account
of the four scams,’ said Gangasagar, blandly.
‘Why not?’ asked Chandini, wondering why they had spent a fortnight
digging up dirt if it wasn't to be used.
‘I shall secure the finance minister's resignation on account of onescam, not four! I
shall use the remaining information only as andwhen I deem appropriate. When a full
house is adequate, why shouldI use straight flush?’
‘Congratulations on taking over as minister for external affairs,
Chandiniji. I know that you will work hard and go even higher,’ saida wellwisher as
Chandini moved around the room shaking hands.
Gangasagar was standing within earshot. He turned around to hisfaithful patron
Agrawalji who was munching on a stuffed potato.
‘Funny isn't it?’ he said to Agrawalji.
‘What's funny about you having realised your dream of makingthis humble girl into
India's minister for external affairs?’ askedAgrawalji.

‘Here's what's funny, my friend. She goes to an external countryfor an education, has
an affair, gets pregnant, and as a reward I make
her minister for external affairs!’
‘Is the honourable minister for external affairs aware that our national
flag was displayed even after sundown at the Indian Embassy inPoland in violation of
Section 2.2 subsection (xi) of the Flag Code of

India? Will the honourable minister assure this House that she shall
take corrective action.’
‘Mr Speaker, sir, I can assure the House that I might definitely takeaction.’
‘Mr Speaker, sir, is the honourable minister for external affairsready to admit that we
have allowed Pakistan to gain the upper handin the recent foreign secretary-level talks
in Geneva? Has the minister
learnt anything from the mistakes made there?’
‘Mr Speaker, sir, I respectfully submit that I'm willing to makesome more mistakes if the
honourable member is willing to learnfrom them.’
‘With permission of the Chair, is the honourable minister for external
affairs aware that alcoholic beverages were served within thepremises of her ministry's
South Block offices even though it was ona dry day?’
‘Mr Speaker, my own view is that alcohol is certainly not the answer
to anything. It simply makes one forget the question. By theway, what was the
honourable member's question?’
‘Mr Speaker. The ministry of external affairs seems to be pickingits way through a
minefield of international diplomacy. Unfortunately,
the honourable minister lacks experience and is stumblinglike a child in the dark.’
‘Mr Speaker, it is my understanding that children in the dark makeaccidents whereas
accidents in the dark make children. I presumethat's how we've all reached here!’

Chandini sat down as the entire Lok Sabha erupted in an explosionof laughter. It was
evident that the new girl was not someone to bemessed around with. Geoffrey
Hemingford had tried, much to his regret.
The chairman of the Central Board of Direct Taxes— the
CBDT—sent two files to the finance minister prior to the latter'sresignation. These
issues were hot potatoes and he wanted themsigned off by the minister himself.

The first file related to R&S, and given the close relationshipbetween the minister and
Rungta, the chairman of the CBDT decidedto get a clearance from the finance minister
directly.
Hon'ble Finance Minister. Investigations into the activities of R&S haverevealed
several instances of financial irregularity. Various items on theexpense side seem to
have been inflated, specifically with the intentionof reducing their taxable income. In
addition, it seems that private partnerships
have been created with a view to parking of profits. Variousitems on the income side
have been deferred, seemingly with a view todeprive the tax authorities of revenue.
Certain transactions—particularlysale and purchase of assets—have been carried out
at questionable valuations,
thus further reducing their tax liability, at least on paper.
The memo was double-spaced and continued on the next page.
Given the circumstances, I seek your advice on how the above mattershould be
handled. Thanking you. Chairman, Central Board of DirectTaxes.
The second file concerned overall tax rates for the common
man—a political decision—and once again, the chairman of theCBDT had decided that
seeking ministerial clearance would be wasprudent.
Hon'ble Finance Minister. Income-tax returns filed for the last fiscal
year have shown that the present burden of income tax on the lowestincome-earners
seems to be the hardest. Last year's economic slump hasresulted in several taxpayers
going into bankruptcy or insolvency. Theabove is particularly true of salary-earners
who also have loan commitments

such as home mortgages to be met. During internal deliberationswith income-tax
commissioners it has been felt that the department oughtto take a lenient view with
ordinary wage-earners this year.
As before, the memo was double-spaced and it continued on the
next page.

Given the circumstances, I seek your advice on how the above mattershould be
handled. Thanking you. Chairman, Central Board of DirectTaxes.
The files arrived at North Block an hour later. The finance minister
pulled out his fourteen-carat gold Waterman from his homespun cotton
shirt pocket and made a note below the first memo. He knewthat he could not protect
R&S officially. He needed to be perceivedas impartial, at least on paper. His jotting
below the memo read:
I suggest they be investigated thoroughly and you should take whateveraction you
deem appropriate to recover taxes that are legitimately due tothe government.
Regards. Finance Minister.
The second one was relatively easy. He had discussed the matterwith the prime
minister and it was evident that they would need togive some concessions and tax
breaks to salary-earners. His jottingbelow the second memo read:
We need to be sympathetic and gentle in our dealings with them.
Without their support, no government can hope to remain in power.
Suggest that adequate flexibility be shown. Regards. Finance Minister.
A few hours later, both memos were in Gangasagar's hands, havingbeen helpfully
forwarded to him by his protégé, the CBDT chairman.
He carefully removed the staple that held the two pages of the firstmemo together and
then repeated the procedure with the two pagesof the second memo.
He then attached the first page of the R&S memo with the secondpage of the memo
requesting relief for ordinary salary-earners, andstapled the two pages together. He
contentedly surveyed the resultof his handiwork.

Hon'ble Finance Minister. Investigations into the activities of R&S haverevealed
several instances of financial irregularity. Various items on the

expense side seem to have been inflated, specifically with the intention ofreducing
their taxable income. In addition, it seems that private partnerships
have been created with a view to parking of profits. Various itemson the income side
have been deferred, seemingly with a view to deprivethe tax authorities of revenue.
Certain transactions—particularly sale andpurchase of assets—have been carried out
at questionable valuations thusfurther reducing their tax liability, at least on paper.
Given the circumstances,
I seek your advice on how the above matter should be handled.
Thanking you. Chairman, Central Board of Direct Taxes.
The memo was followed by the finance minister's handwritten remark.
We need to be sympathetic and gentle in our dealings with them.
Without their support no government can hope to remain in power.
Suggest that adequate flexibility be shown. Regards. Finance Minister.
Gangasagar showed the memo to Agrawalji. He was astounded.
‘What do you plan to do with it?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied Gangasagar, ‘I have enough ammunition withthe scams to destroy
him.’
‘Then why have you gone through this elaborate ritual with yourappointee—the CBDT
chairman?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘When you take out an insurance policy, do you hope for a firesoon?’ asked
Gangasagar.

‘The Chinese ambassador has sought an audience with you, madam,’
said the foreign secretary.
‘But he has just made a statement supporting the Pakistani position.
He says that militants crossing the Line of Control in Kashmirare independent nonstate
actors. We know that the Pakistan intelli

gence establishment is involved and yet the Chinese choose to lookthe other way.
Why should I meet him?’ asked Chandini angrily.
‘We can't afford a confrontation with China, madam. We have
always believed that China has unlawfully occupied around fifteenthousand square
miles of our territory ever since they invaded us in1962. Beijing, on its part, claims
Arunachal Pradesh—in our northeast—
as their own. Diplomatic relations between the two nationsare critical.’
‘I shall meet the ambassador, but on my own terms… after I'mdone with my trip,’ said
Chandini.
‘Your trip? I didn't know that there was anything on the agendafor the next two days.’
‘There wasn't, but there is now. Please arrange an aircraft to takeme to Gaggal.’
‘Gaggal?’
‘The airport near Dharamsala. In the state of Himachal Pradesh.’
‘Dharamsala? You can't possibly go meet the Dalai Lama. TheChinese ambassador
will be extremely upset.’
‘Yes. And once he's adequately rattled, I shall have my meetingwith him.’
Lodhi Road in the heart of Lutyens’ Delhi was home to the famousLodhi Gardens. The
tombs of the Mughal emperors Humayun andSafdarjung marked its eastern and
western limits. Headquarteredthere, the Research and Analysis Wing—RAW—was not
an agencybut a wing of the Prime Minister's Office. This allowed it to remainoutside the

purview of the Parliament's budget allocations eventhough it was rumoured to employ
over twelve thousand agents. Thechief of RAW reported directly to the prime minister
of India.
Earlier in the morning, the chief—known by the unpretentioustitle of Secretary
(Research)—had left his office on Lodhi Road anddriven in his chauffeured white
Ambassador car through the gates

of South Block. He was to brief the prime minister and the ministerfor external affairs
on an assignment. It had been the brainchild ofChandini.
‘Have we made progress?’ asked Chandini eagerly as the RAW veteran
settled down in the chair facing the premier's desk.
‘I am happy to inform you that Makhmud has been arrested,’ saidthe RAW chief to
Chandini.
‘Arrested? By whom?’ asked the prime minister.
‘The Chinese authorities in Xinjiang,’ he replied.
‘I thought that Makhmud was our agent operating in Pakistan,’
said the premier.
‘That's true, sir,’ explained the chief, ‘but Chandiniji's suggestionwas that Makhdum be
prepared, briefed and transferred to the Xinjiang
Uyghur Autonomous Region of the People's Republic of China.’
‘And you're happy that he's arrested?’ asked the premier. TheRAW chief smiled at
Chandini. He then looked at the prime ministerand said calmly, ‘He didn't know that
he'd be arrested. He was sentthere to liaise with Uyghurs, but we ensured that the
Chinese weretipped off.’
‘And what has been achieved by this arrest?’ asked the confusedprime minister,
wondering whether he should have allowed
Chandini to directly coordinate an assignment with RAW.
‘As you know, Makhdum is Pakistani and is one of our secret assets

in Karachi. He acts as a militant cleric and trains jihadis whooperate in Kashmir,’ said
the man from RAW.
‘We pay agents who train thugs to infiltrate Kashmir and causedeath and destruction?’
asked the naïve prime minister.
The RAW man spoke up. ‘If I may, Prime Minister, I would liketo address your
concerns. For years we have known that Pakistanfinances and trains terrorists to cross
the porous border between India
and Pakistan. These trained mercenaries enter Kashmir and giveimpetus to acts of
terrorism. Makhdum—and others like him—areRAW's moles within these jihadi groups.
We know that Pakistan will

continue to send these jihadis anyway. It's useful to have spies within
their outfits.’
‘But what does this have to do with Xinjiang?’ asked the primeminister.
‘The Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region is claimed by thePeople's Republic of China
as an integral part of China. The Uyghursare the local Muslim population who are
fighting to break away fromChina. They're demanding independence,’ explained
Chandini.
‘And what have we achieved by sending a strategic asset to Xinjiang
and having him arrested?’ asked the prime minister.
‘Lots, actually. The Chinese have been supporting Pakistan's anti-
India stance in recent years. China sees Pakistan as India's enemyand, of course, “an
enemy's enemy is a friend”. Chinese support forPakistan has also crept into the
Kashmir debate, with the Chinese often
supporting the Pakistani claim that the conflict in Kashmir is ahomegrown freedom
struggle and is not financed and encouraged byPakistan,’ said Chandini.
‘But that narrow view could dramatically change if China findsthat Pakistan is also
financing other Islamic movements—especiallythe one in Xinjiang,’ said the RAW
chief, eager to get back into theconversation.
‘So why did we get Makhdum arrested?’ asked the Prime Minister.
‘Given that he's a deep undercover RAW agent, he's truly viewedas a jihadi himself.
He has a rich resumé, having personally been therecipient of largesse from the
Pakistani intelligence establishment.

He was sent by us to Xinjiang to liaise with other Islamic militantsand to assist them,’
explained the RAW chief. ‘He did not know thathe would be arrested. Now that he has,
he'll be interrogated by theChinese MSS—the ministry of state security—and his
Pakistani establishment
links will become known to the Chinese. The Chinese
will not be as supportive to the Pakistani cause now.’
‘But what if Makhmud is killed?’ asked the PM.
‘That's the price we pay for Kashmir,’ explained the Secretary (Re
search).

‘I'm assuming that my meeting with the Chinese ambassador nextweek and my visit to
China the week thereafter should be extremelywarm and cordial. After all, both nations
have common issues!’ exulted
Chandini.
The Great Hall of the People, running along the western edge of Tiananmen
Square, covered an area of one point eight million squarefeet. The political hub of
Beijing, the Great Hall had hosted manyhistoric meetings, including a famous one by
US President RichardNixon. The northern part of the building contained the State
BanquetHall that could seat over seven thousand guests.
The hon'ble Indian minister for external affairs, Chandini Gupta,
arrived in Beijing on Sunday morning, starting her three-day officialvisit to China. It was
Chandini's first-ever visit to China and duringher stay there, Chandini would meet with
the Chinese premier aswell as top legislators—besides holding talks with her
counterpart.
Chandini would also attend a ceremony marking the establishmentof a joint China-
India medical team to handle natural disasters.
She would then deliver a speech at the Chinese Academy of SocialSciences, a
Beijing-based government think-tank. Talking to Xinhua
News, Chandini said that she came to China ‘with an open mind tohold free and frank
discussions on all issues of common interests
with a view to shaping a relationship that befits our two countriesand our future
generations.’
The Chinese foreign minister hosted a banquet in her honour onthe last night of her
trip. Also attending the banquet were Chineseparty and state leaders. The national
flags of China and India hadbeen hung in the hall, and the banquet began with the
military bandplaying the national anthems of the two countries. The Chinese minister

arose from his chair and welcomed Chandini and her official
delegation. He went on to say, ‘Even though China and India hadtheir fair share of
differences, the sagacity and wisdom of the Hon'bleIndian minister for external affairs
has resulted in greater under

standing and appreciation of issues of common concern to our twogreat nations.’
Chandini smiled graciously. The Chinese minister thought that shewas basking in his
compliments. She was actually thinking aboutMakhmud and his perfectly timed arrest.
Chandini returned the compliment
by raising a toast to her host. She quoted, in his honour, twolines from a poem by the
great English poet John Dryden, ‘A manso various he seemed to be, not one but all
mankind's epitome.’ Theminister thanked her for the kind words. He might not have
beenas gracious if he had read the rest of Dryden's poem left unread byChandini.
It said, ‘A man so various he seemed to be, not one but all mankind's
epitome; stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; was everythingbut starts and nothing
long; but in the course of revolving moon, waschemist, fiddler, statesman and buffoon!’
‘The leader of the Opposition on a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.
‘Yes, Mr Speaker, sir. Relevance. My question was put to the minister
for external affairs regarding the IndoChina détente. The answerby the Hon'ble Prime
Minister is not relevant—’ began the leader ofthe Opposition.
‘The leader of the Opposition shall resume his seat. The primeminister has just begun
his speech and he is indeed relevant,’ theSpeaker cut him short.
‘On a point of order, Mr Speaker. The question put forth by theleader of the Opposition
is incorrectly framed—’ argued Chandini.
‘The minister for external affairs is debating the issue. Does thehon'ble minister have a
point of order?’ asked the Speaker.

‘My point of order is that disorderly points of order are beingtaken up by the leader of
the Opposition,’ said Chandini as the Opposition
benches joined her in the joke.

‘The minister will resume her seat, please,’ said the Speaker indulgently.
The girl was a star.
‘The girl's a star,’ said his wife as she watched the recorded debate onLok
Sabha
Television. ‘You'd better watch out, she may become morepopular than you. The
diplomatic victory she pulled off in China hasmade her visibility soar!’ The Prime
Minister nodded as he sippedthe bubbling antacid from the glass in his hand. Lok
Sabha sessionsalways gave him indigestion and caused his stomach ulcers to act up.
His wife was right, as always. Gangasagar's stunning victory in theUttar Pradesh
elections and Chandini Gupta's equally stunning coupin China had made them a
potent combination. He would have toplay his cards carefully.
‘Sir, we seem to have a problem on our hands,’ said Menon uncomfortably.
‘What is it, Menon?’ asked Gangasagar, looking up from his morning
papers.
‘Hameed—the waiter—you know, the one who gave us access tothe magistrate. He
wants more money.’
‘But hadn't we paid him for getting the magistrate to issue an arrest
warrant for Ikram?’
‘Yes. He wanted more, though.’

‘Didn't we pay him some more for having the warrant withdrawnwhen Ikram renounced
the chief minister's post?’
‘Yes. But the magistrate has tired of him and found himself another
pretty boy. Apparently, Hameed's in financial distress.’
‘What, specifically, does he want more money for?’
‘For keeping quiet.’

Ikram had just finished Friday afternoon prayers at Jami Masjid,
Lucknow's largest mosque. Ikram was a bit of a hero here. He hadhelped hundreds of
people with little things—a job recommendation,
a school admission, sorting out a property dispute, advancingcash for a daughter's
dowry. Ikram was no less than a Robin Hoodamongst the regular Friday worshippers
at Jami Masjid.
Prayers over, Ikram wandered over from one of the fifteen archeddomes of the yellow
sandstone mosque in the heart of Lucknow intoits massive open courtyard, fifty
thousand square feet in size. He wasinstantly surrounded by a gang of adoring fans.
He noticed a darkyoung man gazing at him. In fact, he was pretty darn certain thatthe
boy had followed him into the mosque too. Not one for pleasantries,
Ikram beckoned him, ‘Boy! Do you wish to meet me? Outwith it!’ The young man
glanced furtively around him, almost likea frightened mouse facing a cat. Ikram asked
his acquaintances toleave them alone for a moment.
‘Sir, I've heard many wonderful things about you. It's because ofyour reputation as a
fair and compassionate man that I have pluckedup the courage to meet you. I have
some information that could beof interest to you,’ said the young man.
‘Information, eh? What sort of information?’ asked Ikram.
‘Sir, please promise me that you won't hurt me when I reveal it toyou—’
‘Why on earth should I want to hurt a pretty boy like you?’ Ikramasked sarcastically.
‘Sir, I needed the money and, in the process, ended up hurting
your interests. By Allah, I swear I never meant to—’

He broke down, weeping.
‘Son. Why don't we start at the beginning, eh? What's your nameand what do you do?’
asked Ikram, putting an arm around theyouth's shoulders.

‘My name's Hameed and I used to be a waiter at the Golden Gatebar in Kanpur…’
‘And what's your connection to me?’
‘I used to be the gay lover of the magistrate who issued an arrestwarrant against you.’
‘Ah. I see,’ said Ikram scratching his chin.
‘Gangasagarji's secretary, Menon, approached me to have the warrant
for you issued and then subsequently cancelled—I did as heasked.’
‘But if you're so influential, why are you in this pitiable state? Youseem to have fallen
on hard times.’
‘I gave up my job as a waiter—it was more lucrative to fix cases.
But then Pande—the magistrate—tired of me and dumped me.’
‘And what do you want from me?’ asked Ikram.
‘I am told that you recently got a job for Rashid, a member of yourFriday congregation,
at R&S Aviation. Could you put in a word forme also?’
‘And why would I want to do that? You helped the Brahmin fox,
Gangasagar, trick me out of the chief minister's post!’
‘But sir, I would be at close proximity to all key politicians—
including Chandiniji—because R&S Aviation provides aircraftand helicopter charters to
various government departments. I can beyour eyes and ears. As you know, in politics
the only relevant currency
is information,’ pleaded Hameed.

Ikram scratched his chin while he thought about what Hameedhad just said. At length,
he said, ‘Go meet Rashid. Tell him I sentyou.’
The steward wearing a dark grey uniform was on his way to the restaurant.
Being a flight attendant for government-chartered aircraftswas a no-win job—one was
anonymous if one performed one's tasks

well and handed out ignominious treatment if one didn't. The factthat he was attached
to the aviation company that handled the ministry
of external affairs’ choppers and airplanes was an even greater
pain. The ministry operated several aircraft for the bigwigs—bothvisiting and
homegrown. The big cheeses could not afford to lose asingle moment of their oh so
precious time and needed to be ferriedon the multi-million dollar machines so that they
could be in time fortheir spoilt children's birthday parties. The pompous hotshots never
even thanked him—he was just a nameless, unacknowledged andoverlooked lackey
who cleared their used tissues and candy wrappers
from the interiors of the craft. But it was still better than beingthe gay lover of a submagistrate.
Thanks to Ikrambhai, Hameed would now be able to rise in his
mother's esteem. She was so difficult to please. She was always humiliating
him about his humble position and meagre pay. She wouldconstantly compare him
with other members of his family who hadbeen more successful, more enterprising,
more achieving. He'd hadenough. He needed to move on with his life and R&S
Aviation—theprivate air charter company servicing the ministry of external affairs—
had been just the right opportunity at the right time.
‘Good to see you again, my friend,’ said the nice
man—Rashid—who had initially interviewed and appointed Hameedupon the
instructions of Ikrambhai, as they sat down and orderedsome tea. ‘Your confirmation
letter is ready and waiting,’ began theman as they sipped their tea. ‘I just need a small
favour from you before
we can move forward.’

The minister for external affairs was expected at a conclave in a hotelnear the Taj
Mahal, in Agra, with a visiting delegation of Russianbusinessmen within a few hours of
her arrival, and the Bell 400 Twin
Ranger helicopter was ready, awaiting her. Pre-take-off checks hadbeen completed
and the pilot had received clearance from Air TrafficControl to take off in five minutes.
Several minutes before her Am

assador car with the red cherry light on the roof appeared, a fleetof police cars—
lights flashing and sirens blaring—surrounded thechopper. Policemen jumped out of
their vehicles and quickly tookHameed, who was standing by, into custody. The baffled
pilot abandoned
his chopper and climbed down, wondering what the commotion
was about.
One of the policemen drew the pilot's attention to the filler cap.
The pilot reached out and opened the cap in order to refit it correctlybut still couldn't
understand the reason for the fuss. It was only whenthe cap came off that he saw the
pebbles and gravel in the filler neck.
It was debris that could have been fatal. It would have allowed the
chopper to take off but would eventually have entered the gearboxand cut power, thus
bringing down the machine and its ministerialoccupant. Lights still flashing and sirens
still blaring, the cops handcuffed
Hameed and bundled him into one of the jeeps and sped off.
The pilot did not notice that the number plates on the police carswere not government
series and the rifles that they held were notstandard police issue.
The man who had appointed Hameed—Rashid— looked at thehappenings through his
binoculars from a safe distance. It was timeto leave.
‘Hameed could not have planned the sabotage by himself. Someoneelse guided and
influenced him. We must get to the bottom of it,’
said Agrawalji worriedly.
‘No one messes with Chandini and gets away with it, Menon!’
hissed Gangasagar as he turned towards his secretary. ‘If anyonethinks he has the
balls to fuck with me, I want his balls!’

‘Hameed was appointed to his post on the recommendation ofIkram, it seems,’ said
Agrawalji.
‘It was Intelligence Bureau men, dressed up as cops, who weresent to grab Hameed.
Hameed must now be made to talk—he can

tell us who wants Chandiniji out of the way. Shall I tell the directorof the Intelligence
Bureau to make him talk?’ asked Menon.
‘No. I have asked the director to pass Hameed on to SachlaDevi—she'll do the
needful,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Sachla Devi? But she's a eunuch. What will she do?’ asked
Agrawalji.
‘I want his balls. She'll find them for me.’
Hameed looked around him furtively, terrified by the ferocious eunuchs
that surrounded him. He had been forced to drink a mild mixture
of milk and opium, just enough to get him to open up, but notenough to lessen the fear.
He lay spread-eagled and naked on a hardsurfaced
bed, his hands and feet bound to the posts. A cord hadbeen tied tightly
around his testicles to halt the flow of blood to hisgenitals. Every few hours, the head
eunuch would tighten the cordcausing him to faint. They would throw water on his face
to revivehim and he would again feel the intense searing pain from the cordaround his
privates.
The eunuchs surrounding him were praying to Bahucharamata—
an avatar of Durga. They were holding him down as theirleader, Sachla Devi, took out
a sharp, gleaming surgical scalpel, itsedges twinkling under the overhead light. She
recited some prayerswith her eyes closed, holding the scalpel in her cupped hands
andoutstretched arms, almost as if she were offering the blade to a higher
power. She then opened her eyes and said to him, ‘It seems thatyou aren't much of a
man. I've been assigned the task of donatingyour testicles to a more deserving one!’

Hameed screamed a gut-wrenching wail. Tears poured down hisface as he pleaded,
‘Please, I'll tell you whatever you want! Takewhatever money I have! Just don't hurt
me! Please! Mercy!’
‘Hush, little one, hush,’ said Sachla Devi, as she walked over to his
face and wiped his tears with her kerchief. ‘This should be the happiest
day of your life. Not many people achieve the honour of serving

Bahucharamata for the rest of their lives. You are indeed blessed.
Stop crying, blessed one.’
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ shrieked Hameed. ‘I just wanteda better life for myself.
I would never have sabotaged the chopper. Iam a good, decent and honest man—’
‘You're not a man! You shall never be a man! If you want my blessings,
you shall tell me the truth. Who is the scoundrel who convincedyou to perform this vile
act? Attempting to assassinate the very incarnation
of Devi!’
‘I'll tell you everything! Please don't castrate me! Please! Oh God,
please! The man who put me up to it called himself Rashid—heworks for R&S
Aviation. I've even kept Ikrambhai informed. I've toldyou everything, please let me go!’
‘I'm happy that you've told me the truth, blessed one. It is important
to make this journey with a clean heart,’ said Sachla Devi, as thescalpel severed his
genitals in one single swift movement. Hameedwas unable to scream because the
intense, incandescent pain causedhim to black out. He only awoke when they inserted
the woodenplug into where his genitals had once been and poured hot oil in
tocauterise the wound.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
About 2300 years ago
T
T
he palace of Nebuchadrezzar II in Babylon was a study in opulence.
The king had spared no detail in cedar wood, bronze, gold,
silver or precious stones. An underground passage connected the twohalves of the city
that lay divided by the river Euphrates. A short distance
away from the palace stood the verdant Hanging Gardens ofBabylon built by the king
to heal his ailing wife Amytis. Nebuchadrezzar
was the greatest builder of all. Magnificent temples in honour ofthe various gods of the
Babylonian pantheon dotted the city landscape.
A marvellous bridge across the Euphrates had been built, supported
on asphalt-covered brick piers that were engineered to reduceresistance from and
turbulence in the river. The city was virtually impregnable
through a triple-layered wall defence system.
It was the eleventh of June and inside the palace of Nebuchadrezzar
lay the sick and dying conqueror of the world. Just a monthaway from thirty-three,
Alexander had spent a night drinking excessively
at a banquet organised by his dear friend Medius of Larissa. Bythe time the night was
over, Alexander was shaking violently fromtremors of malarial fever. Alexander's royal
cupbearer, Iollas, knelt byAlexander's side, offering him sips of the medicated water
that hadbeen specifically sent by Antipater—Alexander's supreme commanderof his
European forces—to cure him of the fever. What the divinitydid not know was that his
medicated water contained hellebore and

strychnine—a deadly mixture— that had been transported secretly toBabylon inside a
mule's hoof by Antipater's son, not to cure but to killAlexander, once and for all.
As news of Alexander's sickness began circulating, the troops became
anxious. Finally, the generals were left with no alternative but

to allow the soldiers to meet Alexander for a final farewell. Theywere admitted into his
bedchamber one at a time. Alexander, who
could no longer utter a word, simply gestured mildly with his weakhands as they met
him. A day later, the immortal being was dead.
‘Alexander has died in Babylon!’ shouted the infantry.
‘And Phillipos has been killed in Bharat!’ yelled the cavalry.
‘This is the time to strike!’ urged Chandragupta.
‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Sasigupta.
The combined forces of Chandragupta and Sasigupta thunderedout of their temporary
camp, as thousands of horses pounded theearth and threw up a huge dust storm. The
rumble of the hooves ofthe beasts was a dreadful, ominous sound, the roll of a
machine of
death.
Over the next few days they would overrun all the provinces directly
administered by the Macedonians. This was relatively easy, given
that the structure of command of the Macedonian forces had completely
broken down following the assassination of Phillipos. Thedeath of Alexander was an
added advantage as it had resulted ina power struggle at the very top of the
Macedonian hierarchy withSeleucus’ own position compromised.
‘The death of a single Alexander is viewed as a tragedy by theMacedonians, but the
thousands of deaths caused by his imperial ambitions

is considered a mere statistic,’ said Chandragupta angrily toSasigupta. It made his
blood boil.
Rakshas seemed to have made himself quite at home in his newsurroundings after his
exit from Magadha. At his new residence inTakshila, he sat on a gilded chair in the
courtyard, his rich creamturban twinkling with diamonds. A pair of gold-handled yaktail
flywhisks
swished in tandem, held by a pair of utterly gorgeous cour

tesans. A golden umbrella held by a chhatradhara— umbrella-bearer—
shaded him from the sun, while another of his attendants held
his sapphire-ruby encrusted sword. He sat barefoot, his boar-skinand silver sandals
lying to one side. Another courtesan waved a fanwoven from palm leaves, usira
grass and peacock feathers to keephim cool. All his female attendants wore
transparent long antariyaswith loose kayabandhs
tied in a knot at the centre, the diaphanousmaterial leaving very little to the
imagination.
As Chanakya walked in unannounced, Rakshas hastily arose fromhis chair shooing
away the nubile maidens that guarded his elegantperson. ‘I see you've made yourself
quite comfortable, Rakshas,’ commented
Chanakya, grinning as he saw the opulence that surroundedthe inimitable erstwhile
prime minister of Magadha. ‘I also see thatthe gifts intended for Alexander by
Dhanananda have been put togood use,’ said Chanakya, his voice like satin. Rakshas
winced. Heknew that nothing ever escaped the ugly bastard's eyes.
‘A man must eat,’ said Rakshas good-naturedly. ‘I'm sure you aredelighted I am
depleting Dhanananda's wealth.’
‘As also that of the unfortunate citizens of Magadha,’ said Chanakya,
not allowing Rakshas the luxury of having the last word. ‘In anycase, my dear friend
Rakshas, I'm not here to discuss the penury thatsurrounds you. I need to chat with you
regarding a rather importantmatter— your contribution to the overthrow of
Dhanananda!’
‘I am with you, acharya. The scoundrel took away from me theonly woman I truly
loved,’ he said as he gestured for his sword-bearing
nymph to bring it over. He picked up the heavy sword by itshandle and theatrically
declared, ‘I shall fight to the finish! Only oneof us—Dhanananda or I—shall live!’

Chanakya snickered. ‘Oh no, my dear Rakshas. I do not need youto do something as
mundane as fighting with a sword. Your delicatehands and your precious life cannot be
compromised.’
‘Are you questioning my bravery, acharya?’ asked Rakshas indignantly.

‘My friend, what is the much-touted bravery that we talk of?
Bravery is simply being the only one who knows that you're afraid!
Tchah! Your value lies in that scheming brain of yours, not bravery.
I need your little grey cells— your know-how. Even more importantly—
your know-who!’
‘I'm at your service, acharya. I shall help you in whatever way Ican to fight
Dhanananda,’ said Rakshas bombastically. ‘No, no, no,
Rakshas, I don't need your help in fighting Dhanananda. I need yourhelp in winning
without a fight. And the solution lies with someonethat you know intimately. His name
is Bhadrashala.’
The alehouse at the corner of Yama road and Rangopajivi avenuewas one of the best
in Magadha. Unlike the other pubs that had acommon drinking area, this one had
independent rooms that couldbe booked by serious drinkers. Each room had
comfortable mattresses,
round cushions to rest one's elbows in Roman fashion, low
tables, large windows for ventilation, fresh flowers and perfumedwater. Very beautiful
female attendants— ganikas—served customers
from a long list of alcoholic brews fermented from rice, flour, beans,
grapes, liquorice, jaggery, mango, honey, wood apple, pepper andother spices.
Adjoining the alehouse was another equally profitable venture—agambling parlour.
This one was famous for dice as well as wagerson every conceivable event. A
seasoned gambling master—a towering
hulk of a man with the physique of a bouncer—lorded over thehouse, ensuring that
patrons followed his rules and that only undoctored
dice were used. He was particular to a fault. His licencefrom the chief controller of
Gambling and Betting was under reviewand he couldn't afford any cock-ups. Five per

cent of the aggregatewinnings went to the state exchequer of Magadha as taxes, and
additional
sums went unofficially to keep the government off his back.
The patron at table six used to be a favourite of the gambling master.
He had spent the last few hours throwing dice and losing heavily,

as was almost always the case. His debts were becoming unmanageable
but the gambling master couldn't pluck up the courage to tellhim that further credit
would not be extended.
It was getting to be that time of night when the patron in questionwould lift himself up
and walk over to the alehouse where his reserved
room, usual drinks and preferred waitress awaited him. Hewas no ordinary citizen.
That much was obvious from his clothes, hisjewellery and his demeanour. What was
not obvious to the casualvisitor was that he was the most powerful man in Magadha
afterthe departure of Rakshas. He was the commander-in-chief of theMagadha army
and his name was Bhadrashala.
‘Put it on my tab,’ said Bhadrashala casually to the gambling master
as he headed over through the open courtyard to his wateringhole. The gambling
master quickly tallied the slips and jotted downthe commander's losses in his redcotton
covered bahikhatha—his accounts
journal. The account was already awash in red ink.
Bhadrashala was very angry to find someone else occupying hisusually allotted room.
‘Ganika, why is there a stranger sitting in myroom?’ asked a visibly irritated
Bhadrashala of the nervous waitress.
‘I tried to stop him, my lord, but he said that he knew you and thathe was your guest,’
she replied, sending Bhadrashala into an evengreater temper as he stormed into the
room.
‘Better that you share your room with me rather than a prison cellfor the officially
bankrupt,’ said Jeevasiddhi —Chanakya's operativein Magadha—calmly as
Bhadrashala marched in.

‘Get out before I have you thrown out,’ snarled Bhadrashala, hisface red with anger, ‘I
neither know you nor do I want to.’
‘Calm down, Bhadrashalaji,’ said Jeevasiddhi, ‘your old friend,
Rakshas, has asked me to solve your problems. He's worried aboutyou and has asked
me to help.’
‘But Rakshas is in Takshila. How could he have possibly told youanything?’ spluttered
Bhadrashala.

‘Let's just say that we have an airborne telepathy,’ said
Jeevasiddhi, referring to the recent pigeon post that had arrived inthe morning from
Chanakya and Rakshas.
‘And why does Rakshas want to help me? I know the rogue toowell. He never does
anything unless it's in his own interest,’ saidBhadrashala cannily.
‘He wants you to remain his friend and ally. He may need friends
to get him back in favour at Dhanananda's court,’ explainedJeevasiddhi as
Bhadrashala digested the information.
‘And who exactly are you?’ inquired Bhadrashala suspiciously.
Jeevasiddhi put his goblet of wine down on the table, purposefullystretched his legs
out on the mattress and said, very casually, ‘I'm thesolution to your financial problems.’
‘How? If you know everything, as you claim that you do, then theextent of my gambling
debts would not be hidden from you.’
‘Hmm. Yes. Your fiscal situation is a mess. No one in their rightmind would extend
credit to you on the strength of your personalbalance sheet,’ said Jeevasiddhi
mockingly.
‘But obviously you have a solution that will make all my financialworries fade away,’
came Bhadrashala's wry response.
‘How could you tell?’ said Jeevasiddhi, tongue-in-cheek. ‘Seriously
now, here's the plan. I'm a horse-trader from Kamboja and havea few hundred horses
outside the gates of Pataliputra. As you know,
having been a cavalryman yourself, the finest horses come from theAshvakan regions
beyond the Indus.’

‘Thank you for the corporate pitch,’ said Bhadrashala with a sneerbut it was evident
that Jeevasiddhi now had his attention.
‘You're welcome,’ said Jeevasiddhi, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘Thepoint is that the horses I
currently have in my inventory are lowerbreeds, not the thoroughbreds that my
customers in Magadha want.’
‘Why the fuck are you wasting my time with this useless tradertalk? I am not a fucking
horse-breeder!’ snapped Bhadrashala.

‘I know. If you were, you'd be rich, not bankrupt!’ said Jeevasiddhismoothly. ‘The plan
that I wish to put before you will make both ofus extremely wealthy. Your debts will be
wiped clean and you'll stillhave enough for seven generations!’
‘Go on. I'm listening,’ said Bhadrashala.
Jeevasiddhi knew that he now had the upper hand. ‘You havethousands of
thoroughbreds in the cavalry. I propose that we sellthem,’ said Jeevasiddhi.
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ shouted Bhadrashala, once again angryat the stupidity of the
suggestion. ‘I can't simply sell off assets thatbelong to the state, you crazy sonofabitch.
I'm audited by the comptroller
every month. The tightasses physically count every horse inthe military stables. This is
your fucking plan to get fucking rich? Getthe fuck out of here, you fucking moron!’
‘Take it easy, my good man. Tell me, when they audit the quantityof horses, do they
also check the quality of the horses present?’ askedJeevasiddhi innocently.
Bhadrashala smiled for the very first time in the night. ‘You wantme to switch them?’ he
asked as the light bulb switched on inside hishead.
‘I can get you hundreds of ordinary breeds. You can switch themfor the cavalry's
thoroughbreds. I can sell the thoroughbreds throughmy network of contacts and you
and I can pocket the difference,’ ex
plained Jeevasiddhi, driving home his advantage.
‘How will the profits be shared between us?’ asked Bhadrashala.

‘Seventy-thirty. I'm doing most of the work,’ said Jeevasiddhi.
He had been instructed by Chanakya to negotiate hard, otherwiseBhadrashala would
smell a rat.
‘Fuck off! Without my thoroughbreds you have no fucking business
model. I want fifty per cent, nothing less!’ argued Bhadrashala,
mentally counting the profits he could earn from the illicit trade.
‘Sixty-forty,’ bargained Jeevasiddhi. ‘Anything more than thatwould make the
transaction unviable for me. Take it or leave it.’

‘Taken,’ said Bhadrashala meekly.
‘How many horses shall I send you to switch?’ asked Jeevasiddhi.
‘How many do you have available for swapping?’ asked
Bhadrashala, smiling at his new business partner.
‘Paurus shall be the force that will help us acquire Magadha. Theproblem is that he'll
be a liability thereafter,’ revealed Chanakyato Sinharan, as they sat in their private
chamber in the palace ofKaikey. ‘He's the medicine that helps stave off an illness but
becomesthe cause of a new ailment!’
Sinharan spoke. ‘Acharya, the messengers have brought goodnews. The death of
Alexander and the assassination of Phillipos havegiven impetus to Chandragupta and
Sasigupta. After having takenover Ashvakans, they stormed the Sindh and were joined
by horsemen
from Kshudraka and Saindhava. They've overrun Sindh almostcompletely. In parallel,
the armies of Alor, Saindhavavana, MahaUrdha, Brahmasthala and Patala have
revolted against the Macedonians
and are ready to accept the suzerainty of Chandragupta. Asper your instructions,
Chandragupta has now been crowned monarch
of Simphapura, and has an army of ten thousand Jats—thestrongest and fiercest
fighters—under his command. That's in addition
to Sasigupta's army, my army of Mallayrajya, and our trainedmercenaries. Do we really
need Paurus?’
‘We do, Sinharan. Paurus has cobbled together three hundred elephants,
five hundred chariots, ten thousand horses and fifty thousand
infantry, besides another seventy-thousand Macedonian, Saka,

Kirata, Kamboja, Parasika, Balhika and Ashvakan mercenaries. Hecan't be ignored.
Magadha has the most powerful army in the world,
an army that even the mighty Alexander was reluctant to fight.
Without Paurus success will be impossible,’ said Chanakya contemplatively.

‘But what's to prevent Paurus from taking over Magadha after it'sbeen conquered?’
asked Sinharan, reflecting Chanakya's own concerns.
‘Why would he fight the battle and not take the spoils?’
‘There's only one way to handle Paurus. We create another equallystrong contender
for the post of emperor of Magadha. Chandraguptathen emerges as the compromise
candidate,’ said Chanakya craftily.
‘But who would that contender be?’ wondered Sinharan.
‘Since the past sixty years, the kingdom of Kalinga has been avassal state of
Magadha. They were conquered and subdued by Mahanandin
and have since been paying hundreds of thousands of goldpanas each year as war
repatriation. The king and his people wouldlove an opportunity to teach Magadha a
lesson,’ suggested Chanakyasoftly.
‘So you'll offer the king of Kalinga the bait that you'd make himemperor of Magadha?’
asked Sinharan.
‘No. Why tell big lies when small ones can be just as effective?
I shall tell him that if Dhanananda is overthrown, Kalinga shall befreed from the unfair
war treaty for sixty years. Nothing more, nothing
less. I shall then leave greed and ambition to take their majesticcourse!’
‘We have a problem,’ said Jeevasiddhi.
‘Now what is it?’ asked Bhadrashala irritably, draining the tumbler
of prasanna and wiping his mouth.

More than two thousand horses had been clandestinely swapped.
Jeevasiddhi would send him halfbreeds and non-pedigree horses;
these would be substituted for the Magadha cavalry's purebreds inthe middle of the
night. The next day, Jeevasiddhi would arrange
to sell the thoroughbreds quietly. The arrangement had madeBhadrashala entirely
solvent and he was once again a preferred customer
at the gambling dens and watering holes of Magadha.

‘It seems that around half the horses that I gave you to switchhad small tattoos on their
backs. It skipped my attention becausethe horses would always be draped in saddlecloth,’
revealedJeevasiddhi.
‘What sort of tattoo?’ asked Bhadrashala nervously.
‘The royal insignia—a very small one, though—of ChandraguptaMaurya,’ said
Jeevasiddhi.
‘Cuntfucker! I'll have your balls for this,’ hissed Bhadrashala. ‘Doyou know what would
happen to me if they found that horses be
longing to Chandragupta Maurya were in the Magadha cavalry?’
‘You'd be executed?’ asked Jeevasiddhi rhetorically.
‘If I go down, I take you down with me!’ snapped Bhadrashala.
‘I understand your predicament, Bhadrashalaji. I sincerely do. Youhave my word that
this information shall remain secret between us.
Nothing shall ever be done to put your position in jeopardy,’ assuredthe smooth
Jeevasiddhi, ‘provided that a few small requirements ofmine can be met from time to
time’.
It made him sick to the stomach! Rakshas had been allowed to escapeand those sons
of whores, Chanakya and Chandragupta, had been leftfree to roam all over Bharat
brewing a revolution to uproot him—theindomitable Dhanananda.

The indomitable Dhanananda sat on his throne, shifting uncomfortably.
The palace cook had been turning out terrible food, whichgave him indigestion and
flatulence. He would have to execute themiserable chef for serving crap to him—the
mighty Dhanananda. Sitting
inside the opulent hall were his council of ministers—a bunchof yesmen. Let
me
have
men
about
me
that
are
scared, thoughtDhanananda. It kept revolutions and revolts to a bare minimum.
Helaughed when he thought back to the days of Shaktar, a prime minister
who considered it his duty to correct his king every now and then.
And then there was Rakshas—the lovable pimp. Ah! Even though he

had run away to Takshila, one couldn't help missing the rogue. Hehad always ensured
that Dhanananda's nights were filled with forbidden
pleasures, a more exquisite one each night. Obtaining Suvasini
had turned out to be worthless. She was one of those women who
appeared desirable as long as they belonged to someone else. Strangehow
women
instantly
depreciate
in
value
the
moment
one
acquires
them,
thought Dhanananda. An impudent fly buzzed around his head andwas swished away
by one of the maidens waving the whisks behindhim.
‘Is Magadha adequately defended?’ asked Dhanananda.
The venerable Katyayan arose. ‘My lord, the question is notwhether we're defended or
not. The more relevant question is whether
we can make our enemies believe that Magadha is defended.’
Dhanananda sniggered. Why did he have to put up with thesebloody intellectuals?
‘Katyayanji, I had put the question to
Bhadrashala, our commander of the armed forces. I think this question
is better answered by him.’ Bhadrashala looked around him warily
as Katyayan took his seat. He hated these council meetings. Hefelt as though all the
other council members present were scrutinising

him. Katyayan, in particular, seemed to stare at him for longstretches, as though he
were a biological specimen under observation.
‘My lord, our army's on full alert. However, it's my suggestion thatthe bulk of our men
should remain here, within the fortified city ofPataliputra. If and when the enemy
attacks, we should lure them intoPataliputra and then massacre them. This should be
easy, given ouroverwhelming strength.’
‘And leave Indraprastha and other border towns undefended?’
asked Dhanananda incredulously. Bhadrashala gulped apprehensively.
Why had he allowed himself to gamble and drink, thus givingthat arsewipe Jeevasiddhi
leverage to instruct him on what to say atthese meetings?
‘There is merit in what Bhadrashalaji is recommending,’ saidKatyayan, jumping in at
the very moment when the sweat from

Bhadrashala's forehead had started to slowly drip onto the floor beneath
him. Katyayan knew that Bhadrashala's words were actuallythose of Chanakya.
Bhadrashala looked on in amazement as Katyayan
took over the argument. ‘Your Highness, the royal treasury is located
inside the fortifications of Pataliputra. Of what use is it to defend
Indraprastha and other border towns when the wealth of thekingdom is right here?
Moreover, we're likely to be attacked fromdifferent directions. Paurus is likely to attack
from the west, the kingof Kalinga from the south and the king of Nepal from the north.
Onhow many fronts should we divide the army? I think Bhadrashala hascome up with
a masterful strategy. Lull the enemy into complacency.
Let him walk into Magadha. Pulverise him once he reaches Pataliputra!’
Dhanananda looked at Katyayan. He then let his gaze wander overto a relieved
Bhadrashala. He then burst out laughing. ‘I toleratefools gladly, but indulge
intellectuals even more. Let it never be saidthat the mighty Dhanananda was too
pompous to take the seasonedadvice of his counsellors. Have it your way— we wait
for the enemyright here!’
‘Ambhi knows that Paurus is going after Magadha,’ said Mehir,
‘and he sees it as an opportunity to attack Paurus's kingdom—
Kaikey—while his attention is diverted. How can we preventthat?’
‘The answer lies in keeping Ambhi occupied. He should not havethe time to look
beyond his own borders,’ counselled Chanakya.
‘How?’
‘Stir up internal strife. Keep him busy controlling law and order.’

‘Easier said than done. His subjects are happy. What would makethem revolt?’
‘Make them unhappy. Think, Mehir. Which is the most powerfulcommunity in Ambhi's
kingdom of Gandhar?’

‘The Brahmins.’
‘And what's the source of their power?’
‘Divine sanction. It's written in the Vedas. They're needed to com
municate with the gods on behalf of ordinary human beings.’
‘And does everyone accept the supremacy of the Brahmins?’
‘No. The Buddhists seem to think that Brahmin rituals and prayersare hogwash.’
‘So, what would happen if Ambhi was seen to be promoting andencouraging
Buddhism?’
‘The Brahmins would be up in arms!’
‘Will you still have happy and content people in the kingdom, dearMehir?’
Mehir smiled, defeated. ‘But how do I get Ambhi to encourageBuddhism in his
kingdom?’
‘The answer lies in Takshila University. It's presently the fiefdomof Brahmins like me. If
part of the university were to be convertedinto a Buddhist centre of higher learning, the
Brahmin communitywould feel extremely threatened.’
‘But Ambhi would never spend his own money for a Buddhistcause,’ argued Mehir
again.
‘I agree. The idea would need to be framed in a way that Ambhigets the credit without
having to spend either his time or his moneyin getting the project off the ground.’

‘But acharya, even if we find someone else to finance it, is it wiseto use religious
differences?’
‘My dharma tells me that I need to unify Bharat under Chandragupta.
If I need to use religious differences to create unity, so be it.
The ends justify the means.’
‘But doesn't it go against your conscience?’ asked Mehir.
‘Mehir, a clear conscience is usually a sign of bad memory. In anycase, in the world of
politics you can ill afford luxuries such as a clearconscience!’

‘Acharya, you're a Brahmin yourself, yet you advise a strategywhich may have dire
consequences for the community?’
‘The only community that I belong to is the community of Bharat.
My only loyalty is to the notion of a unified Bharat.’
‘So which side are you on?’
‘The winning side,’ replied Chanakya.
‘But why don't we get Chandragupta and Sasigupta to simply attack
Ambhi?’ persisted the perplexed Mehir.
‘Our Chinese neighbours have an execution method that's used forperpetrators of the
most heinous crimes. The method is called death
by
a
thousand
cuts. The condemned person is killed through very slowcuts on different parts of his
body. It's a terrible death in which theconvicted man is allowed to bleed to death. I plan
to bleed Ambhi todeath.’
‘Why?’ asked Mehir.
‘Because attacking him openly isn't an option. We must continueto officially maintain
that we're friends even though we're not. He
must feel comfortable enough to allow us to stay behind him.’
‘Why, O acharya?’

‘Because you can only stab someone in the back if you're standing
behind him, Mehir. That's why!’
The monastery nestled within the forests outlying Takshila was quietexcept for the
chant, Buddham
Saranam
Gacchami,
Dharmam
Saranam
Gacchami,
Sangham
Saranam
Gacchami.
The thatched huts were
simple and sparse. The grounds surrounding the little dwellingswere clean and tidy.
The sangha—the monastery—was a perfectstudy in simplicity, cleanliness and
quietude. The one hundred
bhikshus—Buddhist monks—and bhikshunis—nuns—walked in singlefile, their shaved
heads glistening with sweat in the hot sun, thebhikshus segregated from the
bhikshunis. They wore the usual antaravasaka
skirt, uttarasanga
shirt; samghati
cloak and kushalaka
waist

cloth, stitched together from rags and dyed maroon. Worn-out
wooden soles strapped to their feet completed the ensemble. Theyeach owned very
little by way of possessions—a begging bowl, razor,
toothpick, stitching needle and walking staff. As they walked, theychanted the mantra
that meant, I take refuge in the Buddha, I takerefuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in
the Sangha.
Hinduism, with its increasing intolerance of the lower castes,
undue privileges for the Brahmins and Kshatriyas, rigidly definedrituals, and emphasis
on Sanskrit scriptures, was suffocating thosewho lay at the very bottom of the caste
hierarchy. These were thevery first converts to the great new philosophy of Gautam
Buddha, aphilosophy that preached universal equality.
The man watching them from the treetop wore a short-sleevedtunic, a topknot turban,
chin band and earflaps. A sickle hungfrom the right side of the sash around his waist
and an axe wastucked away into the left. A heavy cloak was draped over his
leftshoulder. He wore no jewellery except for his gold earrings andbajubandhs—
armbands in copper and semiprecious stones. On hisforehead was a large vermillion
tilak— the proverbial third eye—hisgood luck charm. He was dressed for battle like a
Kshatriya butwas actually a Brahmin bandit. He had with him around fifty otherdacoits
who had surrounded the monastery and were closely observing
it. The bandit chief was angry. These mischiefmakers—
Buddhists—adopted and converted Hindu untouchables,
asked ordinary people to shun Brahmanic rituals to worship God,
and even had the temerity to write their scriptures in Prakrit insteadof sacred Sanskrit.
How dare they convert Hindus to some newfangled
faith of hypocritical equality! They were now being extendedrights and privileges in the
sacred Takshila University too. Theyneeded to be taught a lesson so that they would
tuck their tailsbetween their legs and run. Run like dogs! Of course, it helped thatthe

fair-skinned Persian, Mehir, was willing to finance the bandits’expedition and defray
other costs.

He silently nodded to his deputy crouched on a branch beneathhim. The skies turned
dark and birds of prey began to circle the monastery
as the carnage began.
Ambhi was incensed. How dare they! If anyone and everyone couldtake justice into
their own hands, what would happen to the ruleof law? These Brahmin bandits thought
they could murder Buddhistmonks and get away with it? They would now see the
merciless sideof their king!
Upon his orders, the thugs responsible for the monstrous slaughterwere rounded up by
his pradeshtra—magistrate for law and order.
This was not about punishment but about retribution. A hundred innocent
Buddhists had been killed in order to satisfy the bloodlust ofbutchers. How could he
justify not punishing the perpetrators?
‘Line them up stark naked along the street of wisdom, and leteveryone see them suffer
the worst indignities that can possibly beinflicted on a human being. A red hot iron nail
should be hammeredinto their tongues, their right hands should be dipped in hot
fryingoil, hot wax should be poured into their left eyes and the toesof their left feet
should be hacked off. Thus mutilated, their faces
should be blackened and they should be seated on donkeys andparaded through the
streets in utter humiliation! They will live, unlike
the Buddhist monks who died—but their lives shall be livinghell!’ ordered a frustrated
Ambhi. He did not know that he was sitting
on a volcano.
‘Tell Chandragupta that I need him to pamper the Brahmins of hiskingdom. He should
be seen as the greatest saviour of the Brahmin

community,’ instructed Chanakya as he dispatched one of
Siddharthaka's pigeons to Chandragupta.

‘O wise master, isn't it only just that the Brahmin bandits whomurdered innocents
should be punished by Ambhi?’ asked
Siddharthaka naively.
‘Every snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty, Siddharthaka.
Which snowflake should you punish?’ asked Chanakya, his eyes narrowing.
‘This is the time for Chandragupta to be seen as a protectorof the faith.’
The note that had been attached to the pure white pigeon that wasalready fluttering its
wings impatiently, instructed Chandragupta onhow he could acquire the halo of a
benefactor, defender, rescuer andpreserver of the Brahmin way of life. Chandragupta
was to ask athousand Brahmins to perform a great big yajna—a Vedic fire sacrifice
in which rich oblations including clarified butter, milk, grains,
honey and soma
would be poured into a massive sacred fire. The kingwas to then hold a great
Brahmanic council to discuss the scriptures.
Without exception, every participant was to win an entry prize. Thiswas to be followed
by a feast for a thousand Brahmins. The programme
was to end with each Brahmin receiving further gifts—goldcoins, clothes, grain, and a
cow.
‘Instead of performing rituals, shouldn't Chandragupta attackAmbhi and finish him off
once and for all?’ asked Siddarthaka.
‘No. I shall let Sasigupta do that instead,’ replied Chanakya.
‘But acharya, isn't it possible that Sasigupta may wish to take overGandhar? After all,
he's just as powerful as Chandragupta. Chandragupta

is now monarch of Simphapura and also controls Mallavrajyathrough Sinharan,
Kshudraka, Saindhava, Alor, Brahmasthala, Patalaand Maha Urdha—but Sasigupta
now controls Ashvakans and
Sindh—two extremely large and strategically important kingdoms,’
said Siddharthaka.
‘He will definitely try to take over Gandhar. And that's what Iwant him to do. While he's
doing that, I want Chandragupta to bebusy praying to Brahmins and their gods!’ said
Chanakya.
‘Why?’ asked the bewildered Siddharthaka.

‘The early bird catches the worm but it's the second mouse thatgets the cheese,’ said
Chanakya cryptically.
‘Did you know that Ambhi maimed and killed a thousand Brahminsin Gandhar?’ asked
the local barber. His patron—the goldsmith—
looked at him. The barber was busy trimming the goldsmith'smoustache. He waited
patiently till the trimming was done and thenspoke up.
‘I heard not only that, I also heard that Sasigupta, the great kingof Ashvakans and
Sindh, will attack Gandhar to avenge the honourof the Brahmins,’ said the goldsmith.
‘Hah!’ blurted the customer-in-waiting. Neither the barber nor thegoldsmith knew him.
He seemed to be a stranger in these parts.
‘Who are you and what do you wish to contribute to this privateconversation, dear sir?’
asked the barber. The stranger let out a littleburp, an acknowledgement of the sweet
and sour apple he had justconsumed.
‘I am Tunnavaya, a tailor from Sindh, here to sell my wares. I'mfamiliar with the one
you call the great Sasigupta, but do you knowthat Sasigupta eats beef?’
‘He eats meat of the sacred cow?’ asked the goldsmith, scandalised.
‘How can such a man be a benefactor of Brahmins?’
‘Ambhi has donated thousands of gold coins to the Buddhists toset up a university
adjacent to Takshila. Did he ever think that heshould spend some of his treasury on
upgrading the existing Brahminschools?’ asked the local schoolteacher, sipping lassi
as he talked tohis friend, an ayurvedic doctor.

His greying friend, the physician, took a swig of his own lassi before
he spoke. ‘I heard not only that, I also heard that Sasigupta, the

Ashvakans chief, is planning to overrun Gandhar and restore Brahmin
pride,’ said the doctor.
‘Hah!’ blurted the customer seated at the table next to them.
Neither the schoolteacher nor the doctor knew him. He seemed to be
a stranger in these parts.
‘Who are you? Do you have something to say, my friend?’ askedthe schoolteacher.
The stranger let out another little burp, an acknowledgement
of the spiced rice platter that had just been consumed.
‘I'm Charana, a wandering minstrel from Sindh, here to entertain.
I am familiar with the one you call the great Sasigupta, but do youknow that
Sasigupta's wife is a Shudra?’
‘He cohabits with a lower-caste woman?’ asked the doctor in a
shocked whisper. ‘How can such a man be the protector of Brahmins?’
‘Ambhi first sold himself to the Macedonians and now to the
Buddhists! Does the man have no shame?’ asked the astrologer indignantly
while reading the palm of his client, an accountant.
His client, a young man hoping for a wonderful prediction of success
and riches from the astrologer, indulged the old man's whimsand allowed the
conversation to stray from his own life.
‘I heard not only that Ambhi is encouraging Buddhists to neutralise

the power of the Brahmins, but also that Sasigupta has sent himan ultimatum asking
him to restore the balance of power,’ said theaccountant, still gazing at his own palm,
which lay in the hands ofthe whimsical palmist.
‘Hah!’ blurted the man half-dozing under the pipal tree, whichwas temporary respite
from the noonday sun for all of them. Neitherthe astrologer nor the accountant knew
him. He seemed to be astranger in these parts.

‘Where are you from, my friend? Do you know something that wedon't?’ asked the
accountant, looking over. The comatose onlookerlet out a little burp, an
acknowledgement of the betel nut that hadjust helped his digestion.
‘I'm Ashvamadhak, a horse-trainer from the Sindh, here to sell myfine steeds. I'm
familiar with the one you call the great Sasigupta, butdo you know that Sasigupta
demolished a Kubera temple to makespace for a chariotway?
‘He willingly allows temples to be razed?’ asked the appalled astrologer.
‘How can such a man be the defender of Brahmins?’
‘In statecraft, as in medicine, words are sometimes the most powerfuldrugs we can
use. The power of propaganda should never be discounted,’
said Chanakya as he moved the pawn in front of his queenforward by two spaces. To
Mehir it seemed like a move that wouldleave Chanakya's queen in a vulnerable
position. He smiled andmade his countermove. Effortlessly, Chanakya moved his
bishop diagonally
three spaces. After Mehir's next move, he zipped his queendiagonally two spaces and
let her sit in front of the pawn. The thirdman in the room watched the game in
boredom, dozing off between
moves.
Chanakya laughed. It didn't matter what Mehir's next move was.
Chanakya would be able to rush his queen straight up to his opponents's
pawn, capture it and place the king in checkmate. The kingwould not be able to
capture the queen because Chanakya's bishopwould be in the way. He could not
move away from the queen, as hewould be blocked by his own pieces. Mehir grunted
in despair as herealised the futility of his position. It was no fun playing chess withthe
acharya. He always seemed to get inside Mehir's head and predict

his every move.
‘Mehir, my dear boy, it's hard to let go of key pieces in this game,
but to win you sometimes have to sacrifice strategic pieces. If youropponent is in a
tight spot you need to let go of bait simply to

get him to move. Just ensure that the sacrifice you make gets youwhat you want!’
advised Chanakya as they wrapped up the game.
The observer of the game between Chanakya and Mehir was Sharangrao—
ace student and undercover operative of the black Brahmin.
He listened to the conversation intently and burped—an acknowledgment
of the wisdom that he had just digested.
Mehir sulked as Chanakya rubbed it in. ‘There are no points forlosing!’ chuckled
Chanakya.
‘So we simply sit here, playing chess, while Sasigupta overrunsGandhar?’ asked
Mehir, visibly irritated at having lost yet again.
‘Mehir, he may succeed in capturing Gandhar, but he'll be bled dryby the Brahmin
guerrilla forces which have been substantially financed
by us. It shall be death by a thousand cuts. Guerrilla warfare isan economical method
of unconventional armed struggle. Our smallgroup of combatants can cause
irreparable harm to a much mightierfoe by using mobile tactics such as ambushes and
raids. Sasigupta'sinvasion of Gandhar will drain him of his resources, make his rule
over Ashvakans and Sindh less stable, and turn him into the sworn
enemy of the most powerful segment of Gandhar citizenry— theBrahmins. That's the
moment when Chandragupta shall effortlesslyrun a hot knife through the butter. I don't
plan to merely get Gandharfor Chandragupta. I shall also get Ashvakans and Sindh—
Sasigupta'sown provinces—for him. Let Sasigupta be the first mouse... the trapwill kill
him. Chandragupta shall be the second mouse. The earlybird catches the worm but it
is the second mouse that gets thecheese!’
‘Why is it that you're getting laid while I'm getting screwed?’ askedBhadrashala.
Jeevasiddhi looked up, tearing himself away from theganika that lay in his arms. She

giggled, and attempted to pull himback for further frolicking but he admonished her.
She got up andleft the room, pouting, while Bhadrashala sat down. Jeevasiddhi
adjusted
his turban and his clothes, then picked up his goblet and

drained the prasanna from it. He wiped his moustache and said jokingly,
‘This prasanna is proof that God loves us and wants us to behappy! Why are you so
fucking glum?’
Bhadrashala was quiet. Jeevasiddhi probed, ‘Did you get the cabinet
to agree to allow our forces to enter Magadha without resistanceuntil they reach
Pataliputra?’
Bhadrashala nodded. ‘They shall face no resistance at all. But youshould be prepared
for a bloody battle once you reach Pataliputra.’
Bhadrashala took another swallow and allowed the alcohol to slowlynumb his senses.
‘What gives you the impression that we'll fight for Pataliputra?’
asked Jeevasiddhi innocently.
‘O hear ye, hear ye, and hear ye. The court of the wise and benevolent
Maharaj Chandragupta Maurya, Emperor of Gandhar,
Ashvakans, Sindh, Simphapura and overlord of Mallavrajya,
Kshudraka, Saindhava, Alor, Brahmasthala, Patala and Maha Urdha,
is now in session. Come and be heard!’ droned the crier as Chandragupta
entered the council hall. Only Magadha remained to be addedto the list. Chandragupta
was reminded of his childhood when hisfriends would utter the very same words as
part of the juvenile theatrics
of their imaginary world. He was saddened to realise that hisfather, the senapati, would
not get to see his son anointed king.
Ambhi was dead, having been killed on the battlefield bySasigupta. Sasigupta was
dead, having been murdered by a Brahminguerrilla set on him by Mehir. Chanakya
had succeeded in killingtwo birds with one stone. Chandragupta had simply walked in

andtaken over Gandhar. The local population had welcomed him withopen arms.
Chandragupta was now more powerful than the kingof Kalinga, as powerful as Paurus,
but slightly less powerful thanDhanananda. That would soon change.
Before he reached his throne, he took a short detour to the rightwhere Chanakya
stood. He bent down and touched his guru's feet

everentially. Chanakya blessed him. ‘May you be ever meritorious,
victorious and glorious!’ he intoned. Chandragupta rose and walkedover to an empty
seat upon which sat a pair of ordinary sandals.
They were his father's. He bowed down before the chair and receivedblessings from
the spirit world before he reached his mother. Thesimple and frail woman had tears in
her eyes as he bent to touch herfeet. She placed her hand on his head and said, ‘May
your world bebeautiful, your actions dutiful, your nature merciful and your kingdom
bountiful, my son.’
Chandragupta wore royal garments made from fine cinamsuka—
imported from China through the silk route. His antariya
dhoti
was pale gold, his uttariya
vermillionred, and his kayabandh
girdlewas creamy white. Around his neck hung a necklace with a pearshaped
diamond of about seventy-five carats at its centre. Around hisupper arms were
bajubandhs studded with flawless blue diamonds,
six carats each. Each armband was embellished with a forty-caratheart-shaped Burma
ruby. On his head he sported a golden turbanornamented with a hundred and fifty
carats worth of pure emeralds.
He looked every inch the emperor of the world.
Chanakya stepped up to the throne and said to a seated Chandragupta,
‘Do you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people ofthis kingdom of Gandhar,
Ashvakans, Sindh, Simphapura, Mallavrajya,
Kshudraka, Saindhava, Alor, Brahmasthala, Patala and MahaUrdha and the dominions
thereto belonging, according to the laws ofkingship as handed down by our ancestors
through the Vedas?’
Chandragupta folded his hands in prayer, closed his eyed and said,

‘I solemnly promise to do so.’
Chanakya asked, ‘Will you ensure that law, justice and mercy shallprevail in all your
judgements?’
‘I will,’ replied Chandragupta.
‘Will you, to the utmost of your power, maintain the laws of God,
the honour of your Kshatriya blood, the protection of Brahmins, thedefence of the
downtrodden, and will you preserve unto the minis

ters and officers committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges
as by law do or shall vest to them?’ asked Chanakya.
Chandragupta answered solemnly, ‘All this I promise to do.’ Thenlaying his right hand
upon a stack of the sacred Vedas he said, ‘Thethings which I have promised, I will
perform and keep, so help meGod,’ as the great hall erupted in cheers.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Present Day
‘I
‘I
'm unable to understand what's going on here. R&SAviation ispart of the Rungta &
Somany empire. Why would they wantChandini out of the way? They're on the same
side as us!’ said Menon.
‘Look beyond the obvious, Menon. Everything is not what it seems,’
said Gangasagar as he made a gesture for Menon to allow the nextvisitor in.
Agrawalji walked in, dressed in a fresh starched dhoti and kurta.
He nodded to both men and sat down opposite Gangasagar. ‘IsChandini alright?’ he
asked.
Gangasagar nodded grimly. ‘She's a fighter. She's not frightened. Iseem to be more
fearful for her life than she is for her own!’
‘What can I do to help?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘The dispute between the R&S partners,’ began Gangasagar. ‘Weneed to understand
what's happening a little better. I also need to understand
Ikram's role in this entire matter—without him knowing it.’

‘But it's obvious, sir. Hameed wanted money. When he didn't get itfrom us, he went to
Ikrambhai and told him how we arranged thingswith the magistrate. Ikram got him to
try and have Chandiniji eliminated
in revenge,’ explained Menon.
‘I'm not sure, Menon. Let's not jump to hasty conclusions aboutIkram. He adopted
Chandini, for God's sake. Something else confusesme, though,’ said Gangasagar,
scratching his head.
‘What?’ asked Menon.
‘Rungta & Somany came to Uttar Pradesh to set up a global scalesteel plant with our
political blessings. One partner agreed to pay

higher compensation to the farmers while the other disagreed andmanaged to get me
to offer a sales-tax concession.’
‘So?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘The pattern repeated itself when you nominated Rungta to takeover the World Bankfunded
roadways project. The junior partner—
Somany—came along and complained that he had been
cheated out of his share by Rungta. In the process he succeeced ingetting an
armaments contract cleared by us. Now that I think aboutit, the whole damn episode
stinks!’ said Gangasagar, cracking hisknuckles.
Gangasagar paused. He stared at Agrawalji for a moment and thenresumed. ‘One
partner—Somany— supported the defence minister inhis bid for the prime minister's
job. The other—Rungta—supportedthe finance minister. Both knew that irrespective of
the outcome, oneof their men would hold the top job.’
‘I don't understand what it is that you're complaining about, Gangasagar!
The rivalry between the two partners brought this presentgovernment—along with
Chandini and nine other ABNS ministers—into
power. Why are you tying yourself up in knots over this?’
‘If it looks like shit, smells like shit, and feels like shit, it's probablyshit! We've been
had—I know it,’ said Gangasagar as he got up fromhis chair.
‘You've had business dealings with R&S, right?’ asked Gangasagarover lunch. He had
calmed down.
‘Yes. I transferred my interest in the roadways project that you gifted

me to Rungta, remember?’ said Agrawalji as he scooped up theremaining rice and
lentils on his plate with his hand and slurped approvingly.
‘I need you to put one of your finance hounds on their trail,’ saidGangasagar, as he
passed a bowl of fresh yoghurt to Agrawalji.
‘What do you want done?’ asked Agrawalji.

‘I need each and every share purchased in R&S companies to beanalysed. Who
bought? Who sold? When? And I want it correlatedwith their public statements!’
growled Gangasagar, wagging hisspoon in a disciplinary gesture.
‘What do you hope to find, Ganga?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘I don't hope. I only go out looking when I already know what Ishall find.’
‘Which is?’
‘A pattern that shows these two partners as being in cahoots witheach other—using
their display of hostility to wangle more businessout of the government. Most
importantly, timing their public quarrels
to coincide with buying of their company stocks, and their cooling
off to coincide with selling. They are milking us and the publiclike we were cows!’
‘But why would R&S team up with Ikram to try to bump offChandini?’ asked Agrawalji
as he wiped his mouth with his napkin.
‘Possibly because R&S are happy with the ABNS supporting
the
government in New Delhi but do not want the ABNS leading
the government
in New Delhi. Chandini is now seen as the only real contender
for the top job, and that must hurt Ikram too,’ said Gangasagar.
‘They also know that Chandini comes as a package deal along withGangasagar, a
terrifying prospect,’ joked Agrawalji.

‘Agrawalji's chartered accountant has done his homework. Shareprices of R&S
Infrastructure crashed from 1,178 to 900 rupees in asingle day when the partners
made public statements about going tocourt over the World Bank project. The very
same day, both partnersbought huge blocks of shares through known investment
companies.
A week later, they announced that they had reached an out-of-courtsettlement and
sold the shares at 1,250 rupees!’ said Menon, leafingthrough the reams of analysis
provided by Agrawalji's team.

‘If they think they can come in the way of Chandini and the ABNS,
they'll soon see that Pandit Gangasagar Mishra is not to be messedwith. How many
employees work in R&S?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Around a hundred thousand, as far as I can recall,’ replied Menon.
‘And how many of those workers are members of ABNS-affiliatedlabour unions?’
asked the Pandit.
‘I found out for you, sir. Our Lucknow University Students’ Unionpresident—Upendra
Kashyap—had gone on to head the
ABNKU—our trade union arm. He says that around twenty thousand
workers of R&S are card-carrying members of the ABNKU.’
‘And the balance eighty thousand workers at R&S?’
‘According to Kashyap, they are split equally between two unions.
The ABNKU is the smallest chunk—only twenty per cent. The othertwo unions are
around forty per cent each.’
‘Which are the other two unions?’
‘The CPUK—headed by Vikram Singh Tyagi, and the
INWF—headed by Lalji Garg.’
‘Menon, I need you to take down two dictations please.’
‘Yes sir?’

‘Dear Comrade. As you know, the CPUK has been working tirelessly
to help the employees of R&S. The problem is that your leader,
Lalji Garg, President of INWF, has betrayed you. Garg, who claims torepresent your
interest, has sold out your interests to Mr Rungta. Increases
in emoluments will now be linked to unattainable productivity
targets. This allows for higher notional increases in the salaryagreement whereas
increases in real wages remain insignificant. Asa friend and well-wisher of each one of
you, I urge you to ditch theINWF and join the CPUK instead. We are the only true
voice of theworkers of R&S. I look forward to seeing you at our weekly meetingnext
Friday. With best wishes. Vikram Singh Tyagi, President, CPUK.’
‘And the other dictation?’ asked Menon, looking up from his shorthand
notes.

‘Fellow Worker. The INWF has worked diligently to negotiatean increased wage
settlement with the management of R&S. Theobstacle in this effort has been the
president of your union, VikramSingh Tyagi of CPUK, who has done everything
possible to derail thenegotiations. His secret pact with Mr Somany entitles him to a
largepersonal payoff for preventing the new salary agreement from beingimplemented.
The time has come for CPUK members to ditch theirbetraying and corrupt union and
join an organisation that speaks upfor you first. Join the INWF. I look forward to
meeting you at ourweekly meeting on Tuesday. Yours sincerely. Lalji Garg, President,
INWF.’
‘To whom do I have to send these?’
‘Tell the president of the ABNKU—Upendra Kashyap—to have letterheads
of both the CPUK and INWF printed privately. Send himthese two drafts and ask him
to have them cyclostyled in huge numbers.
The CPUK letter should be sent to INWF members and the
INWF letter to CPUK members.’
‘But we're letting the two unions meddle in the affairs of the twopartners. Is that wise?’
asked Menon.
‘The partners wanted to put up a façade of battle, where none exists.
They used the façade to pull down governments, resurrect newones, clear contracts,
and now they want to use their devious methods
to pull down Chandini and the ABNS. If they want a fight, byGod, I shall give them
one!’ thundered Gangasagar.
‘But this could lead to inter-union rivalry! It could get violent,’ exclaimed
Menon.

‘When two elephants fight, the grass will suffer, Menon.’
Riot control police, wearing protective helmets and carrying shieldsand gas masks,
cordoned off the thin dividing line between the twowarring unions. The line had been
declared off-limits to both sidesand armoured police vehicles and mobile storage tanks
that suppliedpressurised water to the cannons had been placed along it. The po

licemen were equipped for all eventualities— carrying shotguns, teargas canisters,
pepper sprays, lathis and tasers. On either side of thedivider demarcated by the police
stood thousands of union workers,
waving red and black flags and carrying banners in support of theirrespective
organisations. Both sides’ vociferous leaders used megaphones
to exhort their members to vanquish and destroy the other
side, besides destroying the management—the capitalist pigs! Thescene was repeated
at virtually all locations of the R&S empire—
R&S Steel, R&S Agro, R&S Cement, R&S Telecom, R&S Petroleum,
R&S Infrastructure, R&S Textiles, R&S Pharma and R&S Aviation.
The former finance minister—he had been forced to resign owingto Gangasagar's
machinations—was being interviewed on television.
He was saying, ‘The situation is fairly serious. I think it's very unfortunate.
When you look at the R&S conglomerate, the workers thereare the most highly paid!
Some elements from outside are creatingthis problem. I am all for protection of
workers’ rights. In no wayshould workers’ rights be compromised, but there has to be a
fairprocess by which problems between management and workers aresorted out. My
fear is that if it isn't controlled, the situation may getworse.’
‘He's taken the bait, the foolish man. It's time to use my straightflush not only to
destroy him but also anyone who thinks that theycan take me out of the game,’ thought
Gangasagar as he watched theinterview.
‘Sir, land for Special Economic Zones—SEZs—was allotted by thecommerce ministry
without considering the intrinsic value of it.
Thousands of acres of land were given away to a single company,
R&S Realty,’ said the news anchor, ‘would you care to comment?’

‘No comment,’ said the irritated prime minister, ‘I was defenceminister then, you should
ask that of the then minister for commerce.’

‘Sir, telecom licences were issued in an arbitrary fashion at feesthat were low, even
going by ten-year-old benchmarks. Subsequently,
the company that obtained the new spectrum allocationssold its stake to outside
investors for huge profit. The company thatwas allocated the licence was R&S
Telecom,’ said the anchor. ‘Can
you shed some light on the issue?’
‘No comment,’ said the angry prime minister, ‘I was defence minister
at the time, you should ask the then minister for telecommunications.’
‘Sir, oil exploration rights were handed out to R&S Petroleum eventhough oil had
already been discovered,’ said the news anchor. ‘Canyou tell us why you did not step
in?’
‘No comment,’ said the flustered prime minister. ‘I was only defence
minister, you should ask the then minister for petroleum.’
‘Sir, large quantities of fodder and fertiliser were procured fromR&S Agro for farmers
and cattle that did not exist,’ said the anchor.
‘How could you allow such deals to pass muster?’
‘No comment,’ said the helpless prime minister. ‘I was only defence
minister, you should ask the then minister for agriculture.’
‘The former finance minister ensured that he took the prime ministerdown with him.
The grapevine is abuzz with news that the PM hasresigned,’ said Agrawalji.

‘If he hadn't resigned, the entire government would have comecrashing down—we
would have had to withdraw the support of ourMPs, and all at once, the comfortable
majority would have disappeared,’
laughed Gangasagar.
‘Now what?’ asked Menon.
‘Well, we knocked out the finance minister so that the minister
for external affairs could take his place, thus leaving the external affairs
portfolio to Chandini. We've now knocked out the prime minis

ter—in all probability the home minister will take his place. He's theonly one who has
broad support from all quarters,’ said Gangasagar.
‘So the home minister's slot will now fall vacant?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘Absolutely. And you know what, it needs a thug at the helm ofaffairs to control things,’
said Gangasagar.
‘Ikram? Are you mad, Ganga? We don't even know whether theplot to sabotage
Chandini's chopper had his blessings or not. And youwant him as home minister?’ said
Agrawalji.
‘Yes. One should keep one's friends close and enemies even closer,’
replied Gangasagar and burst out laughing.
‘What's so funny?’ asked Agrawalji.
‘Ikram's always been responsible for a large chunk of the crime inKanpur. He now gets
to be responsible for nationwide crime!’
‘How many people were murdered last year?’
‘32,481.’
‘And, say, fifty years ago?’
‘9,802.’
‘How many people were kidnapped last year?’
‘23,991.’
‘And fifty years ago?’
‘5,261.’
‘How many burglaries last year?’
‘91,666.’

‘And fifty years ago?’
‘147,379.’
‘We need more murders and kidnappings!’
‘Why?’

‘Don't you see? Your burglars have graduated to bigger crimessuch as murder and
kidnapping. And as they've moved on, burglarieshave actually dropped.
Congratulations!’ said Ikram in a tone ofirony to his home secretary.
‘What is the length of the border between India and Bangladesh?’
‘4,096 kilometres.’
‘India and China?’
‘3,488 kilometres.’
‘India and Pakistan?’
‘3,323 kilometres.’
‘India and Nepal?’
‘1,751 kilometres.’
‘India and Myanmar?’
‘1,643 kilometres.’
‘Including Bhutan and Afghanistan, a total of over fifteen thou
sand kilometres, right?’

‘That's right.’
‘And how do you prevent infiltration of terrorists through these
borders?’
‘Barbed wire fences and patrolling wherever possible.’
‘Bollocks! There's no way you can police fifteen thousand kilo-
metres of border areas. Do you know who knows these borders betterthan your
police?’
‘Who?’
‘The smugglers. Help them smuggle their stuff. They'll help youcatch the terrorists.’

Ikram was visiting the National Crime Records Bureau— the NCRB.
He noticed tens of high-speed printers spewing out reams of paper.
‘What's that?’ he asked.
‘Daily reports, crime statistics, national briefings— they are required
at various levels of the home ministry. The data is processedhere and passed on to
hundreds of functionaries within the departments,’
replied the home secretary.
‘Shut down the reports for a week,’ said Ikram.
‘What?’ asked the worried home secretary. ‘It will result in paralysis.
How will senior officers manage without the information?’
‘Tell the NCRB to make a note of whoever calls up demanding it.
The ones who call are the only ones who actually need it. The othersmerely receive it
and file it away. Save time and expense by sendingreports to only those who need
them!’ instructed Ikram.
They were at the offices of the Intelligence Bureau. The director wastaking the home
minister on a guided tour of the workings of theworld's oldest intelligence agency. They
had been old friends in theirprevious avatars as mayor and police commissioner of
Kanpur butthe new hierarchy made the conversation between the two men alittle
uncomfortable.
‘When was the agency established?’ asked Ikram.
‘In 1885,’ came the reply. ‘The Intelligence Department for theBritish Army was
established in Simla to monitor troop movements

in Afghanistan.’
‘And then?’ asked Ikram.
‘In 1909, we became the Indian Political Intelligence Office to
monitor Indian anarchist activities. The men were trained by Scotland
Yard and MI5.’
‘And then?’
‘With Indian Independence in 1947 we acquired our presentform.’

‘As a man ages he begins to lose his intelligence. You've becometoo old,’ joked Ikram,
as he outlined his plan to overhaul the establishment.
‘How do you monitor your success?’ he asked.
‘Most of our cases are classified, thus we're never able to discuss
our successes,’ complained the director.
‘Neither are you compelled to discuss your failures,’ retortedIkram. ‘When citizens are
not aware of what you're doing, they can'ttell what you're doing wrong! When was the
last time you were ableto accurately predict a terrorist act or an invasion?’
‘There are practical limitations to what we can do,’ protested thedirector.
‘With twenty-five thousand employees and agents?’ wonderedIkram. He paused for a
moment and then looked the director in hisface. ‘Tell you what, you're familiar with
Kanpur, right? Why don'tyou have a meeting with Ranbir Gill?’
‘Who's he?’ asked the director.
‘He's the president of the Bar Owners’ Association of India and theproprietor of a
seedy joint in Kanpur that you might remember from
your youthful days—it's called the Durbar Club.’
‘Why should I meet him?’
‘There's nothing that doesn't get discussed when people are drunk.
Want to revamp your intelligencegathering? Speak to sober peoplewho spend their
time with others who are pissed!’

‘He's pissed off,’ said the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘Then cool him off,’ said Gangasagar.
‘If he starts getting into too many details, we'll have a problem on
our hands,’ said the director.
‘Then maybe you need another solution,’ replied Gangasagar.

Ikram and the director of the Intelligence Bureau were walking downthe narrow lane of
Chandini Chowk— the old city of Delhi. The director
had requested the home minister not to come—the area wastroubled and he could not
guarantee Ikram's safety. The minister,
however, had insisted. Hindu-Muslim riots had broken out in the Old
City. The lanes of Chandini Chowk were too narrow for the policejeep to pass through
and so the men got out of their vehicle andwalked. Dirty, congested, and difficult to
access, the narrow laneseemed to be filled with dark and dingy corners that were
eerilyquiet. Chandini Chowk was like the aftermath of a battle zone. Rocksand broken
bottles lay strewn all over the street. All the shops wereshuttered and there wasn't a
soul in sight except for a few stray dogs.
Ikram surveyed the scene and winced. Why was India so easilyexcited by religion?
Indians could tolerate poor sanitation, pathetichospitals, lack of schools, potholed
roads, erratic power, unhygienicwater and subsistence living, but say something to
offend a man'sreligion and you had an instant explosion. ‘This is the last Hindu-
Muslim riot that shall ever happen on my watch as home minister,
is that clear?’ he told the director as he walked with him throughthe street. ‘There shall
be no compromises. Offenders shall see that itisn't a good idea to fuck around with us!’
They had walked a few steps further when there was a crash behind
them. They spun around and saw broken glass lying in a puddleof acid. Someone from
one of the upper floors of an overlookingbuilding had thrown an acid bomb at the home
minister. ‘Send yourmen to search that building. I want all the men, women and
children
lined up here immediately!’ barked Ikram, and his instructionswere relayed almost in
parallel to the policemen. Within ten minutesaround fifty people had been rounded up.
‘Anyone else inside thebuilding?’ asked Ikram. ‘No sir, everyone's here,’ came the
reply.

‘Tell the women and children to return inside,’ commanded Ikram.
There was a shuffling of feet as the nervous women gathered theirchildren and hurried
indoors. Around fifteen men were left standingin a line. ‘Stretch out your hands, palms
facing upwards,’ shoutedIkram and waited for a minute as everyone did what they
were asked

to. Ikram walked along the length of the human chain observing thepalms and
occasionally bending down and sniffing their hands. Hewalked to the end of the line
and walked back, repeating the process.
He stopped at the seventh man and sniffed again. ‘Step forward,’ hesaid softly. The
worried man stepped forward, his eyes darting aboutshiftily.
‘Come here, son,’ said Ikram to one of the constables, ‘lend me
your sidearm.’ The man who had been asked to step forward wentinto a panic. ‘No
wait, you can't do that. Nothing has been proven—’
The shot fired from the gun in Ikram's hand was directly aimedat the culprit's head. He
fell to the ground, his brain splattered in agooey mess. There was pin-drop silence in
the street. ‘This is a wordof advice from your new home minister. Never, ever, fuck with
me!
Get it? I'll always—always—shoot first and ask questions later. Unless
you want to get shot, don't you dare mess with me!’ He wipedhis prints off the revolver
with a handkerchief, returned it to the constable
and said to the director, ‘Write it up as an encounter. He washit in crossfire.’
He turned around and spoke to the fourteen remaining men.
‘Anyone else in the mood for getting a quick cure for a headache?’
Chandini Chowk was back to normal by five pm that evening. Gangasagar
had chosen the right home minister.
‘He bumped off a civilian without blinking an eyelid,’ said the director
of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘Typically Ikram,’ said Gangasagar coolly.

‘If he makes this a habit, we'll have a problem,’ said the director.
‘I made Ikram home minister knowing that you would be aroundto keep him in check.
Do your job,’ replied Gangasagar.

The Indian Airlines flight took off from Mumbai en route to Nagpurat three pm in the
afternoon with a hundred and seventy-seven passengers
and twelve crew on board. Thirty minutes later, as the aircraft
passed over the city of Nashik, a ferocious-looking man holdinga semiautomatic kicked
open the door of the cockpit and ordered thepilot to get up and join the rest of the
passengers in the back of theaircraft. He commanded the petrified co-pilot to take
control of theaeroplane. Three accomplices—all armed with handguns—broughtthe
passengers and crew under their absolute control. Their leader—
a thirty-four-year-old Pakistani—ordered the co-pilot to head towards
Muzaffarabad, in PakistanOccupied Kashmir. The nervous copilot
told him that they had just enough fuel to reach the city of Bhopal
where they would necessarily need to refuel.
As the information of the hijack was conveyed from the aircraft tothe control tower and
on to the home ministry, Ikram rushed to theNew Delhi control room of the Crisis
Management Group—the highpowered
officers entrusted with the unenviable task of dealing withsuch unfortunate
situations. ‘Shoot at the fucking tyres,’ he orderedthe commander of the National
Security Guards—the NSG—whichhad already reached Bhopal. The aircraft was
standing in the middleof the Bhopal airfield and the tyres were in plain sight of the
sharpshooters.
It had been awaiting fuel for the past thirty minutes andnot a single tanker had
approached the aircraft.
The hijacker's animal instincts told him that something was afoot.
‘Take off!’ he instructed the co-pilot. ‘We need permission from AirTraffic Control,’
protested the nervous co-pilot but the gun to hishead was all the permission he
needed. ‘Take off now! No fuckingpermission is needed!’ the hijacker growled.

‘Why the delay in shooting the tyres? Send in the fuel tanker. It willbuy us some time!’
said Ikram on the phone from New Delhi to theNSG. ‘Sir, if we place the fuel tank in
the vicinity of the aircraft, we'llnot be in a position to take out the tyres. The slightest
spark could

ignite the aircraft and the fuel tank into one giant fireball,’ arguedthe NSG commander.
‘Then find out how much fuel the damn aeroplane
actually has,’ barked Ikram. ‘Enough to get him to Muzaffarabad,’
came the reply. The NSG had tallied the fuel log filed in Mumbai
with the theoretical consumption from Mumbai to Bhopal.
‘Tell the pilot to take off and jettison fuel midair discreetly—
convey it in your pilot gobbledegook!’ said Ikram. ‘Give himclearance to fly to New
Delhi. We'll be lucky if he lands here—we'rein a better position to handle things in the
Capital,’ said Ikram.
‘Bhopal ground, IC-617, request radio check,’ squawked the co-pilot.
‘IC-617, read you five by five,’ replied ground control.
‘IC-617, gate six, request IFR clearance to Muzaffarabad as filed.’
‘IC-617, cleared IFR Delhi not Muzaffarabad as filed, Lambourne
four Mike departure runway twenty-six left, initial five thousandfeet, squawk four-fourfive-five.’
‘IC-617, request push and start.’
‘IC-617 push and start approved, call for taxi.’
The aircraft taxied and prepared for take-off. The copilot wasaware that his life
depended on the hijacker's finger on the trigger.

‘Why did you file a flight plan for New Delhi?’ screamed the hijackerto the co-pilot. ‘I
asked for Muzaffarabad, but they approved NewDelhi instead. They know that there
isn't enough fuel to reach Muzaffarabad,’
replied the co-pilot, sweating profusely. ‘I don't care. We'regoing to Muzaffarabad,’
shouted the hijacker.
‘Muzzaffarabad airport is a disused facility—it's unlikely to haveany night landing,’
explained the copilot as he manoeuvred the aircraft
into takeoff and discreetly jettisoned a thousand gallons of jetfuel as soon as he
crossed an altitude of five thousand feet. The special
valves, located on the airplane's wings, released fuel into the air,
which evaporated into the providentially hot and dry Bhopal atmosphere.

‘We're not going to land in New Delhi,’ growled the hijacker ashe pressed the butt of
his pistol into the copilot's neck. ‘If you haveenough fuel for Delhi, you also have
enough fuel for Karachi—that'scloser than Delhi!’
‘Tell Pakistan to deny the landing request!’ said Ikram to Chandini.
Both were inside the control room along with the home secretary.
Chandini nodded and picked up the hotline to her counterpart inIslamabad.
‘Mr Foreign Minister, if you allow IC-617 to land in Karachi weshall use it as an
opportunity to tell the world that the Pakistan government
actively planned, financed and encouraged this act of terrorism.
Thousands of television stations around the world will beam
images of the aircraft standing at Karachi airport,’ said Chandini overthe phone. ‘You
decide whether Pakistan needs that sort of publicity!’
‘Even if we deny permission, it's possible that they may still land,’
pleaded the Pakistani minister.
‘But you can shut down your Air Traffic Control and landinglights! If you black out
communication and navigation, IC-617 willnecessarily divert from Karachi,’ Chandini
said, and slammed downthe phone.
‘They've shut down all communication,’ said the co-pilot to the hijacker.
‘I can just about make it into New Delhi from Karachi withthe fuel that we now have.
What do you want me to do?’
‘I can see a fucking stretch of runway down below— land!’

screamed the hijacker. The dazed co-pilot, now entirely dependenton his own naked
vision, began the descent towards what seemedlike a runway. As the plane
descended, he realised that what hadlooked like a runway was just a well-illuminated
stretch of road.

He was able to climb just in time to avoid what would have otherwise
been a massive accident. ‘Fine, let's go to fucking New Delhi!’
grumbled the assailant, realising the hopelessness of the situation.
As they headed towards Delhi, the pilot of a British Airways planeflying the same route
informed them that New Delhi airport hadbeen closed to traffic. Approaching the city,
they saw the runwaychoked with trucks and fire engines. As they made a low pass
overthe chaos, the co-pilot radioed New Delhi flight control and informedthem they
were running out of fuel. ‘Give them permission to land.
By now they should have run out of reserve fuel,’ said Ikram.
The co-pilot was miraculously allotted an automatic landing frequency.
Within a minute he observed fire trucks, army jeeps and ambulances
being cleared. Landing in New Delhi at ten pm, the aircraftwas instantly surrounded by
armed troops of the NSG.
‘Get me those motherfuckers in the tower!’ yelled the hijacker. Hemade the co-pilot
radio the control tower stating that unless the NSGwas withdrawn he would start
shooting hostages. A standoff ensuedwith the threatening figure setting a ten-minute
deadline and holding
his gun to the trembling co-pilot's head.
‘Get the NSG out of there,’ Ikram commanded the home secretary.
‘We can't have innocent blood on our hands.’ He then explained whathe wanted done.
‘Delay the refuelling—buy time!’ instructed Ikramas he discussed the alternatives with
the home secretary and the NSGchief.
Fed up of Ikram's delaying tactics, the hijacker once againthreatened to start shooting
passengers and crew if the aircraft wasnot refuelled immediately. Thirty minutes later,

he forced the seniorpilot to kneel on the floor near the open door of the aircraft in
plainview of hundreds of television cameras and shot him in the head,
execution-style, allowing his lifeless body to fall to the tarmac belowthe aircraft. ‘That
should teach you motherfuckers not to mess withus!’ he shouted into the radio.
Looking at the face of the hijacker on the television screen, Ikramknew that his
moment of glory had arrived.‘Tell him the home min

ister would like to speak to him directly,’ Ikram ordered the control
tower operator.
A few crackles later, the hijacker picked up the radio.
‘I'd like to come aboard,’ Ikram told him. ‘You have nothing tolose and everything to
gain. If we strike a deal, you win. If we don't,
you still have a high-profile hostage—the home minister of India.’
‘You can come, but no one should accompany you. No airs of arrogant
ministers!’ replied the hijacker.
‘The Prophet has said that as the fingers of two hands are equal,
so are human beings equal to one another. Wait for me at the aircraftentrance—you
can pat me down. I come in peace—we are Muslimbrothers!’ said Ikram.
As the hijacker gave his assent, Ikram started walking alone towards
the aircraft. He was wearing a earpiece that allowed him tostay in touch with the NSG
commander and the control room. TheNSG sharpshooters kept the aircraft door within
their telescopic vision
to prevent the terrorist or his accomplices from taking a shot atthe home minister.
The NSG commandos approached the aircraft from the rear—a blindspot. Five teams
stealthily clambered up black aluminium ladders toaccess the aeroplane through the
escape hatches under the fuselage.
The control tower kept the hijacker's attention diverted by discussingin agonising detail
the protocol by which Ikram would board the aircraft.
Ten minutes later, as Ikram reached the steps leading up to theaircraft, the hijacker
stood near the door waiting to pat him down.

In the meantime, NSG commandos blasted open the emergencydoors and stormed
the aircraft yelling for the passengers and crewto hit the floor. The three accomplices
were instantly shot. Thefourth—their leader —was awaiting Ikram at the entrance of
the aircraft.
To his surprise, he saw the home minister pull out a sniperhandgun from his pocket
and take aim at him from the tarmac.

The emergency chutes had already been activated and the passengersand crew were
evacuated immediately for fear of the aircraft havingbeen boobytrapped. Five minutes
later, the commandos radioed‘Grand Slam’, the codename for the successful
completion of theoperation. The crackling information was transmitted to
Ikram'searpiece but there was no one at the other end to receive it.
A few moments later a radio signal was sent to the prime minister.
Four hijackers down; hostages free; six wounded; one home ministermartyred.
Menon sat in Gangasagar's living room, reading the news aloud tohim. ‘There was an
outpouring of grief across Uttar Pradesh on Friday
with much of the state shutting down to mourn the late homeminister of India—Ikram
Shaikh. His body was flown in an air forceplane on Friday afternoon from New Delhi to
his hometown Kanpurfor burial. Earlier, thousands of people in the capital paid their
lastrespects to the hero who sacrificed his own life to save the hostagesof IC-617,’
read Menon. He looked up at Gangasagar for a reaction,
but there was none.
He continued, ‘Ikram Shaikh, who died at the hands of a hijacker'sbullet on
Wednesday, was laid to rest at Bagmari Muslim BurialGround in Kanpur, by the side of
his parents. The home minister's funeral
cortège snaked its way through surging crowds from his homein Kanpur's largest slum
to Green Park stadium where thousands, including
his griefstricken adopted daughter —Chandini Gupta, minister
for external affairs—and hundreds of state and national leaders
lined up to pay homage to one of India's finest home ministers. Later,
an Indian Army carriage transported the coffin of the deceased tothe burial grounds as
thousands of supporters paid their last tributes.

Police failed to control the surging mourners, who broke barricadesat several points to
rush towards the coffin. Accompanied by several
central ministers, the prime minister laid wreaths on the body

placed in the carriage. He also met Chandini Gupta, Ikram's political
heir and adopted daughter, and the late leader's political ally andmentor—ABNS chief
Gangasagar Mishra. The prime minister issuedan appeal asking people not to commit
suicide out of grief for thedeparted soul.’
Gangasagar coughed. Menon stopped reading and looked up. Hecould see that
Gangasagar's eyes were moist. Uncomfortably, Menonrambled on, ‘The roads
between the stadium and the burial groundwere teeming with mourners lined up along
the road itself, onrooftops and packed into the stadium to bid adieu to the man
whodied a sudden, tragic death that they were still coming to terms with.
The funeral procession slowly made its way to the stadium whereleaders from across
the political spectrum paid tribute. Hundredsof vehicles followed the flower-bedecked
truck in which the body,
draped in the national flag, was kept. Standing by the side of heradoptive father's body
was Chandini Gupta, who was appealing topeople to allow the vehicle to move.
Holding national flags, some rantowards the truck to have a closer look at the casket
and console her.
In the rest of Uttar Pradesh, a silence fell, with normal life comingto a crippling halt.
Schools, colleges, offices, shops and businessesclosed as a mark of respect to the
leader. The usual morning bustlewas missing as the government declared a two-day
holiday. The stategovernment declared a seven-day mourning period and cable TVoperators
took all entertainment channels off the air.’
Menon reached the end of the article. Gangasagar looked him inthe eye and said, ‘I
must be cruel, only to be kind. Thus bad beginsand worse remains behind.’ Menon had
never studied Shakespeareotherwise he would have realised that his master had
quoted fromHamlet. ‘Call the director of the Intelligence Bureau. I need to speakwith
him,’ said Gangasagar as he walked towards his bedroom.

He was softly muttering, ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti,
Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti;
Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.’

‘I cannot speak, for every word that emerges is one that causes mepain. I cannot
sleep, because I have nightmares of losing him againand again. I cannot think,
because memories haunt me. I cannot eat,
because I feel no hunger. I cannot cry, because I seem to have nomore tears left. I
cannot see, because my eyes are frozen on one image
alone—that of my adoptive father. I cannot mourn, because helives on in my heart,’
said Chandini as she delivered her speech tothe gathered mourners.
‘I stand before you today and beseech you to remember the sacrifice
made by this noble soul—a man whom I am proud to call myfather. Even though he's
no more with us, his political and sociallegacy lives on. I dedicate the rest of my life to
doing what he didbest—wiping away tears, filling empty bellies, and making
peoplesmile.’ Chandini omitted to mention that Ikram was also a mafia don
with a trigger-happy finger.
‘The great religions of our country merged together to create thiswonderful unity in the
diversity that we call India. I am born Hindubut am the adopted daughter of a Muslim.
This was the greatest giftthat the Almighty could bestow upon me—it was His way of
sayingthat I belong to no single group—I am the daughter of India and Ibelong to all of
you!’ she said, tears running down her artistic face.
‘Death is so beautiful—it's a great enhancer,’ whispered Gangasagar,
seated in the last row with Menon. ‘Ikram achieved more forChandini by dying than he
could ever have achieved by living.’
Hameeda—previously known as Hameed—stood outside the shopclicking her tongue.
‘Don't you want us to bless the shop?’ sheshouted, swinging her false braid coyly. The
shopkeeper avoidedlooking at her or her companions of Sachla Devi's gang. They

lookedpositively hideous with their garish make-up and muscular bodiesencased in
saris. Realising that her implied threat had failed to produce
the desired result, the remaining eunuchs starting clapping andshouting loudly,
creating enough of a ruckus to deter customers

from walking in. The shopkeeper quickly reconsidered his positionand sought their
blessings, for a price of course. Hameeda mentallycursed her fate and thought back to
the eventful day when shehad—while she was still Hameed—approached Ikram at the
mosque.
‘Boy! Do you wish to meet me? Out with it!’ Ikram had beckoned.
A few weeks after that initial meeting, Hameed had met Ikram onceagain at the
mosque.
‘I met Rashid, at R&S Aviation, who gave me the job. But he wantsme to do
something… I'm scared,’ began Hameed.
‘Why are you scared?’ asked Ikram, curiosity piqued.
‘He wants me to fill pebbles in the fuel tank of a helicopter. It's tosabotage the machine
of your adopted daughter—Chandiniji. Pleasesir, help!’
‘Calm down, son. Do what Rashid tells you to. I'll handle the restof it.’
‘But—but—I don't want to get into any trouble…’ After Hameedleft, Ikram picked up the
phone and spoke to the director of the Intelligence
Bureau.
‘He's been asked to sabotage Chandini's chopper,’ said Ikram.
‘Let's arrest this Rashid immediately,’ suggested the director.
‘That may not be his real name. Furthermore, he may have accomplices,’
said Ikram. ‘No. Let Hameed follow Rashid's instructions.

Have your men ready to pick him up and make a show of it. I do notwant Hameed in
police custody, but in yours. Keep an eye on Rashidso that we can get not only him but
also his entire network.’
‘How the fuck did you allow Hameed to be handed over to SachlaDevi?’ yelled Ikram at
the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘What was I supposed to do? Tell Gangasagar that I wouldn't?’
asked the director.
‘You could have let him get away!’ roared Ikram.

‘Gangasagar would have come after me and it would have beenmy balls instead of
Hameed's!’ explained the exasperated director.
‘You could have told Gangasagar the truth—that Hameed was innocent
and that we were trying to get Rashid instead.’
‘That would have meant also telling him you helped get Rashid aswell as Hameed
those jobs at R&S Aviation in the first place.’
‘There was no need for Ikram to take aim at the hijack leader. Hadhe left it to the NSG
he might be alive,’ said the director of the Intelligence
Bureau.
‘I know, I know,’ said Gangasagar. ‘But he'd seen the hijacker'sface on television. He
now knew that the hijacker was Rashid. Thefact that Rashid had tried to kill Chandini
must have made his blood
boil and he must've decided to finish off the man once and for all.’
‘The NSG ended up shooting at Rashid in a hopeless effort to protect
Ikram,’ said the director.
‘Ikram was like that—shoot first, ask questions later. Ikram mayhave been a hotheaded
thug, but he had a heart of gold. Yes, he wasquick to pull a trigger—but only if he knew
that it was meant to deliver
justice. And yes, he may have felt cheated when Hameed toldhim that I had tricked
him into renouncing the chief minister's post,
but he would never take his revenge on Chandini,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Since when did you start getting soft, sir?’ asked the director.

‘Since the time you were unceremoniously booted out as policecommissioner, and I
felt sorry for you and arranged your postingat the Intelligence Bureau. You used to be
Ikram's friend too, youknow!’
‘Alas, in my line of work there are no permanent friends—onlypermanent interests.’

The Red Fort—the largest monument in Old Delhi— wasn't merelya site from which
the prime minister of India addressed his countrymen
on Independence Day. It was also a labyrinth of cells and tunnels.
During Mughal times, more than three thousand people livedinside the fort. Located
deep within its bowels were ten speciallyguarded cells. They were interrogation cells
belonging to the Intelligence
Bureau of India.
Inside one of these cells, Rashid lay on a hospital bed that hadbeen specially brought
here along with sophisticated medical equipment.
The only people who knew that Rashid had survived were thedirector of the
Intelligence Bureau and Gangasagar.
‘You'll need to release this man into my custody!’
The command was delivered authoritatively. The director swungaround in his swivel
chair to find out who was impudent enough to
interfere. He was shocked to see that it was the chief of RAW.
‘You'll need to release him,’ said the Secretary (Research) simply.
‘Do I get a reason?’ asked the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘He's a RAW agent. Good enough?’
‘What the fuck are you rascals up to? Rashid was involved in an attempt
to sabotage the helicopter of the minister for external affairs.
He then hijacked an aircraft with a hundred and seventy-seven passengers

on board. Why would a RAW agent be plotting against Indian
ministers and hijacking civilian aircraft?’ asked the director of theIntelligence Bureau.
‘Rashid is an alias. His real name is Makhmud. He's a Pakistani
double agent. We had used him in a Chinese operation. Unfortunately,
the last part of the operation involved him being arrestedby the MSS—the Chinese
ministry of state security, and we omittedsharing that part of the plan with him in
advance,’ explained theRAW veteran.
‘But what was the purpose of the plan?’

‘Our minister for external affairs was able to negotiate from a position
of strength in China due to this successful operation in whichMakhmud was used to
cause a rift between the Chinese and the
Pakistanis.’
‘If he was arrested by the MSS, how was he here in India?’ askedthe director.
‘His Uyghur comrades launched an attack on the prison where hewas being held in
Xinjiang and he was able to flee. He entered India
with the help of Nepalese smugglers and reached Lucknow wherehe sought the
assistance of Ikrambhai on humanitarian grounds.
Ikrambhai helped him out of his sense of duty towards a Muslimbrother but unaware of
his background.’
That explains Ikram's anger when he saw that the very Muslim brotherhe had taken
pity on had not only attempted to sabotage Chandini's helicopter
but also hijack a civilian aircraft, reasoned the director.
The executive boardroom on the twenty-third floor had a panoramicview of the city.
Plush leather swivel chairs surrounded a shiningmaplewood conference table. Giant
portraits of the founders hung onthe walls. The room was infused with the heady
aroma of Cuban cigars.
Mr Rungta and Mr Somany, partners, sat at opposite ends of thetable, sipping warm
camomile tea.
‘The game we played with Gangasagar has boomeranged,’ saidRungta as he
absentmindedly stirred his tea. ‘Your man—the previous
defence minister—has been ignominiously booted out from hisprime ministerial berth.
My man—the finance minister—has to content

himself with lecturing at universities!’
‘All the deals are falling apart—telecom, oil, fodder, land. Thegovernment is too scared
to let any of them move forward,’ said Somany.
‘Even the stock sales and purchases that we timed with ourquarrels and
reconciliations are under the regulator's scrutiny. Thetrade union dispute brought all
business to a standstill for almost aweek!’

The knock on the heavy oak door was soft. ‘Come in,’ announcedRungta. A smartly
dressed secretary walked in. ‘Sorry to bother you,
sirs, but there's a gentleman outside. He doesn't have an appointmentbut he says that
if I tell you his name, both of you would definitelywish to meet him.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Somany curiously.
‘He says his name is Pandit Gangasagar Mishra.’
‘Both you gentlemen have seen what I'm capable of. Even though Ihave the upper
hand, I'm willing to declare a truce,’ announced Gangasagar.
Rungta and Somany looked at each other, wondering wherethe catch lay.
‘There's no catch,’ said Gangasagar, reading their minds. ‘I'm toomuch of a pragmatist
to ignore the value of friendships with influential
businessmen.’
‘And what would such a friendship get us?’ asked Rungta.
‘For starters, I shall avoid getting both of you prosecuted for sheltering
a known terrorist—Rashid—in your aviation firm. The verysame Rashid tried to
sabotage the helicopter of the Honourableminister of external affairs. He then went on
to hijack an aircraftin which the honourable home minister tragically lost his life!’
thundered Gangasagar.
Both partners were visibly shaken and remained quiet. ‘But I'm nothere to teach you a
lesson,’ softened the history teacher. ‘I'm here tobe friends,’ he joked.

‘God defend me from my friends, from my enemies I can defendmyself,’ mumbled
Rungta under his breath as Gangasagar began outlining
his proposal.
‘The ABNS expects to be the ruling party in New Delhi after thenext general elections.
To achieve that, we're going to need money.
Lots of it,’ explained Gangasagar.

‘You already have Agrawalji,’ said Somany. ‘He's been a great benefactor
of the ABNS.’
‘That's my problem,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Agrawalji is our benefactor,
but our benefactor needs benefaction.’
‘In what way?’ asked Rungta.
‘Four of your deals are in jeopardy. The fate of all four proposalslies in the hands of
ABNS ministers. If we're friends, I'll tell our ministers
to also be friendly,’ offered the Pandit.
‘How?’ wondered Rungta.
‘The commerce ministry will find that of the several thousandacres allotted to R&S
Realty, a few hundred were undervalued. Thebalance will still remain with you. The
minister of telecommunications
will discover that telecom licences were issued at low levels
and shall double the fee. R&S Telecom will still make a killing, given
that they paid only a tenth of the fair market price. The petroleum
ministry will observe that oil exploration rights were handedout to R&S Petroleum
because no other private player was willingto take on the huge contingent liability of
environmental insurance.
And finally, the minister for agriculture shall discover an error intheir cattle census and
arrive at the conclusion that the orders for
fodder and fertiliser placed on R&S Agro are correct, after all. Seehow much I'm willing
to do when we're friends?’ said Gangasagar.
‘What about the union dispute you caused?’ asked Rungta. ‘You litthe match. Now how
does one put out the fire?’

‘Don't worry. Our union—the ABNKU—has used the past fewweeks to woo the
members of your two main rival unions. TheABNKU now makes up more than fifty per
cent of the workers. We're
willing to sign a new wage and productivity agreement immediately.’
‘And what will this cost us?’ asked Somany dryly.
‘Agrawalji's firm shall be entitled to ten per cent commissions on
all revenues arising from the four deals that are resurrected,’ saidGangasagar.
‘And why are you being so generous with him?’ asked Somany.

‘Rice
pudding
is
quite
expensive
these
days,’
said
Gangasagarcryptically.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
About 2300 years ago
T
T
he modest and austere hut in the woods adjoining the palacegrounds of Takshila was
dimly lit. Chanakya, much against thewishes of Chandragupta, had decided that he
would not reside in thepalace but would continue to live in spartan surroundings.
Chanakyasat on the ground at his desk, with two lamps before him—one lit andthe
other not.
The Greek noble who sat before him also on the ground wasshort, curly-haired and
clean-shaven. He wore an ornately patternedchiton—a tunic of light linen, which left a
shoulder bare. Except forhis belt, which bore a few semiprecious stones, he wore no
jewelleryat all. His name was Megasthenes and he was the new
Macedonianambassador sent by Seleucus to Chandragupta's court. ‘Please be
clearwith me,’ requested Chanakya. ‘Is your meeting with me today personal
or official?’
Megasthenes smiled. He had been forewarned of the outspokenBrahmin whose
machinations had installed Chandragupta on the
throne. ‘I'm here in Takshila to officially represent my lord Seleucusin the court of His
Highness, Chandragupta, but I'm here today in mypersonal capacity to meet you, sire.
Fame for your abilities, wordsand deeds has spread far and wide and I needed to see
for myself thisBrahmin who has acquired the persona of a demigod!’
‘Ah! Then you must wait for a moment,’ said Chanakya as he efficiently

lit the second oil lamp and extinguished the first.
Megasthenes was puzzled. What purpose did it serve to snuff outone lamp while
lighting another that was exactly the same? He hesitantly
asked, ‘Sire, why did you do that? Both lamps shed the samelight.’

‘They are indeed identical, my friend, but the first one containsoil that has been
supplied from the government treasury while thesecond is supplied with oil bought by
me personally. Since your visitis not official, why should I expend state resources?’
said Chanakya.
The bewildered Megasthenes understood the reason for Chandragupta's
success thus far.
‘My master, Seleucus, has asked me to informally tell you thatwhile he hopes to have
mutually beneficial diplomatic relations withEmperor Chandragupta, he will not
compromise on Macedonian control
over the territory between Phyrgia and the Indus,’ said the ambassador.
‘I thought this was a personal visit—you're making me spend frommy personal tab
quite unnecessarily,’ joked Chanakya. ‘Let's not talkof war between friends, good sir,
let's talk instead about love, marriage
and happiness.’
The befuddled ambassador was wondering how to deal with thisnew tactic, when
Chanakya spoke again. ‘Our king, Chandragupta,
has already married the lovely Lady Cornelia, the noble daughter ofyour mighty
master, Seleucus. Their secret marriage—a GandharvaVivah—happened a few
months ago. You see, Megasthenes, you andI could well be considered in-laws!’
‘Bu—but wh—what is a secret marriage? How did this happen?’
spluttered Megasthenes nervously.
Chanakya laughed. ‘In an ordinary arranged marriage, the groomgets to screw his wife
after
he gets married, in a Gandharva Vivah he

gets to screw her in
order
to
get married!’ he quipped crudely. Megasthenes
shifted uncomfortably—he was overcome by a persistentdesire to scratch his crotch
but the presence of this powerful thinkerprevented him from doing anything so
downright physical.
‘But Seleucus has not given his permission to the match,’ said Megasthenes.
‘It seems that Cornelia doesn't need it. Our king seems quite besotted
with her. It seems that Lady Cornelia has all the four as

pects—mother, sister, daughter and whore—of a perfect woman. DidI tell you that four
is a lucky number for us?’ said Chanakya.
Megasthenes was struck speechless. Before he could recover,
Chanakya said, ‘So you see, ambassador, your visit is indeed a personal
one. Shall we now discuss the bride's dowry?’ Megasthenes’crotch was itching even
more fierecely as he stammered,
‘D—d—dowry?’
‘Yes. After all, the dowry that accompanies the daughter of a monarch
such as Seleucus must quite obviously reflect his power andglory. I suggest that
Seleucus give Arachosia, Gedrosia, Paropamisadae
and Aria to our able monarch. Didn't I tell you that four is alucky number for us here in
Bharat?’
‘Would that be all?’ asked Megasthenes apprehensively.
‘Not quite. Your master, Seleucus, is yet to overthrow the otherclaimants to
Alexander's throne. He still needs to fight Antigonusand Dmetrius, both claimants
toAlexander's dominions. Our emperorwould like to provide you with five hundred and
one elephants toterrorise your enemies and thus contribute to your victory! Five
hundred
and one is an even luckier number, eh?’
‘And would there be any expectations in terms of compensationfor these elephants?’
asked Megasthenes anxiously.
‘Tell your old ally, Paurus, that he can invade Magadha, enjoy herpleasures for the
night, but must leave the next morning. His affairwith Magadha shall be a one-night
stand, not an enduring relationship!’

said Chanakya with a devilish gleam in his eye.
It was too frigging late. He had been duped and Paurus was angry.
His intelligence chief, Abhaya, had informed Paurus about
Chandragupta's coronation in Takshila. Chanakya, that old bastard,
had been present to administer the oath of office. There was obviously
no rift between teacher and student. But it was too late to doanything about it. His army
was already on the move and one simplycould not halt a massive war machine in its
tracks. Dhanananda

already knew that Paurus was on his way to fight him. If Pauruswithdrew, what could
prevent Dhanananda from attacking him? No,
it was clear. He would have to proceed as planned. But
I
shall
not
fucking
share
the
spoils
with
Chanakya
or
his
puppet,
Chandragupta,
thought Paurus. Magadha was his, all his.
His luxurious tent pitched in a field a few yojanas from the borderof Magadha was an
island of tranquillity surrounded by a tumultuous
ocean. The cacophony of sounds produced by a hundred thousand
men, forty thousand horses, four thousand charioteers andthree thousand war
elephants, was deafening. His tent, if it could becalled one, was made of wood. It
would be assembled each time theycamped in a new place. The wooden walls were
draped with thickfabric to absorb sound. Within the king's tent stood a four-poster
bedand an ornate desk and chair. Silken rugs and fine linen bedspreadsconveyed an
aura of softness in a room that was otherwise filled withinstruments of war—his
armour, helmet, swords, daggers and spears.
Abhaya was standing before him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably

from one foot to the other. The old king had kept him waiting
on his feet for over an hour. The pins and needles in his soleswere beginning to bother
him. ‘Chandragupta has married Cornelia—
the daughter of Seleucus. Seleucus has handed over Arachosia,
Gedrosia, Paropamisadae and Aria to Chandragupta as dowry.
Megasthenes, Seleucus’ ambassador in Chandragupta's court, has assured
Chanakya that the mighty Paurus shall have no claim toMagadha's throne,’ informed
Abhaya as Prime Minister Indraduttgazed at the map of Magadha that lay before them.
‘Who does Megasthenes think he is?’ thundered Paurus. ‘He can'tmake commitments
on my behalf. I'm no longer a servant of theMacedonians! Magadha is mine! It's my
divine duty to capture it andunite it with Kaikey. No one can stop me—not even God!’
Abhaya shifted a little more. He kept his eyes glued to his toes. Hewas never
comfortable conveying delicate news to Paurus. He flewinto tantrums so easily. ‘After
all is said and done, a lot more is saidthan done, O King,’ suggested Indradutt wisely.
‘Megasthenes and his

master are fully aware they do not have any bargaining power withus. Let's attack
Magadha and use it as a bargaining chip.’
‘O wise Prime Minister, there's more bad news. The king ofKalinga, desirous of
throwing off the yoke of Magadha's suzerainty,
has pledged to attack with fifty thousand troops. He will be attackingfrom the east as
we move in from the west. He may also be a contender
for the throne,’ said Abhaya quietly.
‘That arsewipe who has meekly accepted enslavement byMagadha for the past sixty
years now thinks he can sit on the throneof the most powerful kingdom on earth?’
asked Paurus with hauteur.
Indradutt kept quiet although he would have liked to remind hispompous king that he
too had accepted being slave to the Macedonians
not too long ago.
‘Maharaj, let's not worry about Seleucus or Kalinga. These are notthe real obstacles in
our path to Pataliputra,’ advised Indradutt.
‘Then who is?’ asked the angry Paurus.
‘Chanakya,’ replied Indradutt.
In a dusty old warehouse in Paricharak lane of Pataliputra, no onepaid any attention to
the several men pounding away at a ratherstrange mixture. Each man used oversized
stone pestles and mortarsto grind the curious concoction into a paste. Surrounding
them werevarious quantities of the ingredients—some of them imported— including
costmary, sweet flag, hypericum, gum, sagapenum, acaciajuice, illyrian iris,
cardamom, anise, nard, gentian root, dried rose-

leaves, poppy-tears, parsley, casia, saxifrage, darnel, long pepper,
storax, castoreum, frankincense, hypocistis juice, myrrh, opopanax,
malabathrum leaves, round rush, turpentine-resin, galbanum, carrotseeds, opobalsam,
rhubarb root, saffron, ginger, cinnamon, vinegar,
and honey. Supervising the men was Jeevasiddhi, continuously referring
to the little notes that had been sent by Chanakya using pigeon
post.

In an adjoining room sat another group of men wearing thick cotton
masks. They were preparing an even deadlier brew. They wereroasting orpiment, an
orange-yellow mineral found along the easternborders of Magadha. The result was an
ayurvedic compound calledphenashmabhasam—white arsenic. ‘Fool!’ Jeevasiddhi
yelled at oneof the men who was using his bare hands to dust off the residue fromhis
mortar. ‘Wash your hands immediately! Then apply some of themithridatay
solution from the other room!’
Why
am
I
stuck
with
these
idiots
who
have
no
fucking
clue
to
whatthey're
dealing
with,
he thought. He paused to reflect. He then smiled.
He realised that they were willing to do the job only because theyhad no clue. It was
always better to operate on a strict need-to-knowbasis. And these simpletons didn't
need to know anything at all.

The creaking bullock cart wound its way through the new chariotroad that ran from
Indraprastha to Pataliputra. The cart was old andhad seen better days, but the bullocks
looked surprisingly well-fedand strong. Little bells around their necks tinkled to the
swaying motion
of the lumbering beasts of burden. Seated on the cart were threemen. One of them
was old, dark, and had a pockmarked face. Hewas stark naked—without even a
loincloth around his privates. Hislong hair, beard and moustache were unkempt.
Sandalwood pasteand cremation ash was smeared across his face and body. His
appearance
indicated that he was an Aghorpanthi—one of a fierce and eccentric
sect of yogis who worshipped Shiva, and whose name translated
to ‘non-terrified’ because they did not fear death. Aghorpanthisbelieved that everything
in this world was created from divine matter
and thus nothing could be impure. The aggregate of the universewas sacred and
flawless as God himself. Aghorpanthis sat for theirmeditation and penance in
cremation grounds, praying for the soulsof the departed and consuming the flesh of the
dead. They were necrophagists.

The two other men were quite obviously his disciples. One wassitting in front, directing
the bullocks, while the other was seated opposite
his guru. Both followers wore scanty loincloths of the samegreyish-white colour,
stained from ashes of the dead. Aghorpanthiswere not to be messed around with.
They were human symbols ofShiva himself. They lived in cemeteries precisely
because these werethe very places that Shiva dwelt. Aghorpanthis roamed around
starknaked because their nudity reflected their complete detachment fromthe illusory
world of ordinary mortals. There was a method to theirmadness. Through their terrible
penance they transcended humanemotions of attachment, pride, jealousy, and hatred,
thus becomingtrue yogis.
Their cart was not stopped at any of the border checkpoints alongthe way. The guards
were simply too terrified of being cursed bythem, or worse, being eaten alive. The
three men in the cart chuckledto themselves as they saw the fear in the eyes of all
those who passedthem. Chanakya, Chandragupta and Sharangrao made the journey
toPataliputra pretty quickly.
Inside the palace grounds, Dhanananda was busy pouring rivers ofclarified butter,
honey, milk, grain and soma into the grand sacredfire being tended by a hundred and
ten Brahmins of the kingdom.
It was a fervent plea to the Almighty to grant him victory over thescoundrels who
wanted to usurp his throne. After the ceremonieswere over, the Brahmins would be led
to the royal dining hall whereten senior Brahmins would be fed on crockery of pure
gold. The onehundred junior Brahmins who had stood in the background recitingVedic
hymns would also eat, but on a hundred plates of solid silver.
Pleasing the Brahmins was the equivalent of pleasing God andDhanananda had taken
out some time from his usual schedule of
pleasing himself to attend to the sacred rites.

Prayers over, the Brahmins were led to the dining hall where theywere shocked to find
three Aghorpanthis sitting before three of the

golden plates. ‘This is preposterous! How can we sit here with thesedisgusting men
who live among corpses and eat rotten flesh?’ askedthe chief Brahmin among them.
Dhanananda was also livid. Why hadhis guards allowed these obscene mystics into
the premises?
‘They said that they would curse me and that my intestines wouldpour out of my
stomach, which they would consume with relish!’
said a hysterical guard to Dhanananda. His commanding officer, ahandsome young
man with an exceedingly well-oiled moustache saidin alarm, ‘Your Highness, they said
that my limbs would fall offand fly spontaneously into your sacred fire. They said that
the meathanging on my bones would be nicely roasted before they took asingle bite!’
‘O King, we may be Aghorpanthis but we came here to seek divineintervention for your
victory. Our powers are far greater than thehundred and ten fat Brahmins who are
present in this room. By insulting
us you have brought the wrath of Shiva upon you. Shiva'sblood shall poison your wells
and your citizens shall die of thirstwith the enemy baying like wolves at the city gates.
Nothing cansave you or your kingdom now—not even another a thousand sacrificial
fires!’ shouted the naked Chanakya as all three men stood upwith plates still in their
hands. They threw their plates down on thefloor in rage and stormed out of the dining
hall. None of the guardsblocked their exit. Dhanananda too stood motionless,
paralysed withfear. It was only a few minutes later that his guards saw the puddleof
urine around his feet.
‘If a snake isn't poisonous, all the more reason that it should pretend
to be so,’ muttered Chanakya quietly to Chandragupta and Sharangrao
as they left the premises.
‘Hurry up! Get the phenashmabhasam poured into all the wells before

sunrise. Why must I deal with a bunch of incompetent cretins!’
muttered Jeevasiddhi as he supervised the gangs of men who were

usy poisoning the wells, cisterns, tanks and reservoirs of Pataliputra.
‘Why must we kill innocents to take over Magadha?’ Chandragupta
had asked Chanakya.
His guru had replied, ‘The first ones that drink water in the earlyhours of the morning
are animals. This is the reason that the poisoning
must be done at night— human loss shall be extremely limited.
Word regarding the curse of the Aghorpanthis has already spread. It'sa matter of time
before the populace is willing to do anything thatwe demand.’
‘And what happens when the council calls us and pleads with us,
requesting that we revoke our curse?’ asked Sharangrao.
‘Simple. We tell them that Dhanananda must make a supreme sacrifice
to rectify the breach. He must leave his palace to live in theforests—in exile. In the
meantime, Jeevasiddhi shall get his men topour the antidote prepared by us—the
mithridatay—into the verywater sources that were poisoned the previous night.
Miracles dohappen!’ laughed Chanakya.
‘But how do we take control of the city?’ asked Chandragupta.
These complex schemes of his guru always perplexed him. He muchpreferred a
straightforward battle that he could sink his teeth into.
‘Dhanananda's commander—Bhadrashala—has been completelybought over by
Jeevasiddhi. The moment Dhanananda exits thegates Bhadrashala will hand over
command of the entire Magadhaarmy to you, Chandragupta, so long as we pay him
the predetermined
bribe.’

‘But we shall still have Paurus and the king of Kalinga standing atthe eastern and
western boundary walls itching for battle,’ counteredChandragupta.
‘They will not have to fight us. We will welcome them as allieswith open arms,’ said
Chanakya.
‘So we've gone through this excruciating journey running aroundnaked like crazy
cannibals just so that we can open the city gatesand hand over the keys to the
enemy?’ asked Chandragupta, irked at

the notion that the conceited Paurus was to be welcomed into Pataliputra.
Chanakya laughed. Turning serious, he said, ‘Chandragupta, youseem to have
forgotten one of the very first things I taught you. Keepyour friends close and your
enemies even closer.’
Bhadrashala stood to one side watching the procession of chariots,
horses and elephants as the mighty Dhanananda left his palace andhis kingdom to
renounce the world along with his unfortunate wivesand servants who didn't seem to
be in any mood for renunciation.
Bhadrashala was relieved—his debts had been cleared and he was
now a very wealthy man.
Jeevasiddhi had been told by Chanakya to make sure Suvasini wasnowhere near the
king while his entourage moved out. She wouldstill be needed for one final
negotiation—or so he convinced himself.
He was too proud to admit his lifelong infatuation with her.
‘I want him killed,’ said Chanakya to Sharangrao as he watchedDhanananda ride off in
his chariot. The emperor looked as if he hadaged ten years in a single day. Gone was
the permanent evil smirkthat adorned his face. Gone was the arrogant swagger. And
gone wasthe kingdom of Magadha.
‘If we have him eliminated, the entire populace shall think thatwe're behind it—and
rightly so,’ argued Sharangrao.

‘Our bigger problem will be Bhadrashala. He seems to think he'sstill entitled to his
position as army chief. He's been in touch withRakshas who's been using our carrier
pigeons to stay in touch withhim,’ whispered Jeevasiddhi.
‘Has he formally surrendered his sword to us?’ asked Chanakya.
‘No,’ replied Jeevasiddhi.
‘Get that done immediately. I need his sword. I have a plan,’ saidChanakya as
Magadha's populace celebrated Dhanananda's departure.
As the entourage left the gates of Pataliputra, Chanakya ordered

that a message be sent to Paurus and the Kalinga monarch that theycould enter the
fortified city and expect a rousing welcome.
‘You're allowing them inside against my will,’ suggestedChandragupta to Chanakya.
His teacher smiled. ‘My problem,’ saidthe acharya, ‘is that you have a strong will but I
have a weak won't!’
The two armies of Kaikey and Kalinga poured into Pataliputra.
Chanakya stood at the entrance of the palace to greet the honouredguests. A hundred
drummers beat a deafening welcome as theirchariots rolled in.
The king of Kalinga was not as tall as Paurus but seemed justas strong. He wore a
bronze helmet encrusted with cat's-eyes, astone that was astrologically auspicious for
him. Across his chest wasa leather-padded vest armoured with ribs of iron. A longhandledbroadsword
hung from his belt. He stepped out of his chariot andwas greeted
by Chanakya. ‘Welcome to Pataliputra, O great King,’ hesaid conspicuously and then
added softly, ‘I sincerely hope that thiskingdom shall be blessed by your benevolent
rule.’
Paurus had dressed up for the occasion, his pale yellow turbansported a peacock
feather fashioned from emeralds and sapphires tomatch the blue-green hue of the
regal bird's plumage. As his towering
hulk alighted from the chariot pulled by three white horses,
Chanakya greeted him in humility with folded hands. ‘Welcome toPataliputra, O Divine
Emperor,’ he said, flattering the vain monarch
in a loud voice. He then whispered, ‘I hope that Magadha shallprosper under your able
rule.’ Paurus smiled. I've taught the rogue his
true place, he thought.

When both sovereigns had settled into their luxurious accommodations,
the shadowy figure went over to meet them individually.
‘I've already told Chandragupta to withdraw from the contest forMagadha,’ Chanakya
said to each of them. ‘The kingdom cannot beleft headless. If Chandragupta isn't to
rule, then the reins must necessarily
be held by either one of you. Rather then getting the armies

to clash, it would be better that the two great monarchs have a duel.
Let the best man take Magadha,’ he suggested. He knew that the suggestion
would appeal to the vanities of both men.
Paurus reached over and drew his sword. He held it lovingly, allowing
the handle to become one with his hand. He readied his steel,
bracing himself for the clash of metal against metal that would follow.
Kalinga gripped his blade in his left hand. Being lefthanded wasactually an advantage,
he thought. Most of his opponents lost theirjudgement when combating him. They were
unused to fighting lefthanders
whereas he was extremely comfortable duelling righthanders.
The two danced around each other in a classic martial arts
routine. As they circled one another they looked into each other'seyes. A single blink
would determine who had the upper hand.
As both warriors finally enagaged, sparks flew from their clashingswordblades.
There was a sudden pause in the noise as both stood suspendedin a deadlock, each
with his blade at the other's throat. The frozen
stance continued for a few seconds till Kalinga blinked. Paurusthrust his weapon
forward but Kalinga recovered smartly, using athreesixty-degree motion to fend off the
attack. Paurus drew bloodbut not life.
Both antagonists hyper-charged their attacks, putting their entirestrength into the fight
to the finish. The titans knew that the duelwould end with a death but both also knew
that they needed a conclusion—

and fast.
Kalinga tripped and he knew in that split-second that his life wasover. But he sprang up
and lunged forward to attack anyway, whilePaurus calmly stepped aside and with a
single swipe of his swordcaused a gaping tear in the side of Kalinga's neck. Blood
gushedforth from the wound as Kalinga fell to the ground, his sword clat

tering noisily. In a profoundly chivalrous moment, Paurus threw hisown sword to the
ground and knelt before his opponent. As Kalinga'sblood flowed and life ebbed,
Paurus said, ‘Goodbye, O valiant King.
Paurus is proud to have fought you.’
One down, one more to go, thought Chanakya.
The unassuming house of dance instruction on Shiva Street, in theeastern district of
Pataliputra, run by the former courtesan and funded
by the Peacock Trust, was ready to graduate another student.
Vishaka was undoubtedly one of their very best products. Her utterlyseductive
hourglass body, pearl-ivory complexion, twinkling emeraldeyes, perfectly full ruby lips,
delicate pert nose and cascading auburnhair drew men like they were flies to honey.
This particular honey,
though, was venomous.
Vedic astrology was based upon the twenty-seven nakshatras—or
constellations—that occurred in the twelve zodiacs. Each nakshatra
had an arc of thirteen degrees and twenty minutes and this, whenmultiplied by twentyseven,
provided Vedic astrologers with a complete
circle of three hundred and sixty degrees. The position of themoon during the birth of a
child in any of the twelve zodiacs wasknown as the raashi—the moon sign—of the
person, but even moreimportant than the raashi was the position of the moon within
thenakshatra of the individual. The ancient seers of Magadha had observed
that birth under specific positions of the moon made certainwomen extremely unlucky
for the longevity of their partners. Girlsborn on Tuesdays during the seventh lunar day
of Vishaka possessedunfortunately potent horoscopes that guaranteed that any man
theycohabited with would die. They were Vishakanyas— poison maidens.

During graduation week, Vishaka and other girls in the schoolwould have to prove they
were truly immune to poison. Each daythe graduates would line up while their
principal, carrying a largecovered basket, would make each girl put her hand inside it.
Eachbasket contained successively more venomous snakes and Vishakawas one of
the few who went through the entire week without theslightest reaction to the bites.
She was as deadly as the snakes that

had bitten her. The principal knew that Vishaka was the one shewould offer to
Chanakya. The founder of the school could not beoffered anything less.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Present Day
H
H
arry Richardson sighed. History was definitely the most boringsubject ever. Even the
colourful Henry VIII and his fetish fornewer and newer wives did not interest him. He
adjusted his false collar
and white tie as he reread his textbook. His neck was itching. Hehad never really got
used to the school uniform—black tailcoat, waistcoat
and pinstriped trousers. Eton was a pain in the arse.
He shifted his bottom uncomfortably on the chair in his privateroom in Godolphin
House. His rump was still sore from five strokesof the cane that he had received from
the headmaster the previousday for being late for division. His stomach grumbled.
Eating breakfast,
lunch and supper in Bekynton—the massive central dining complex—
was plain unappetising. The only meals he enjoyed were themid-morning Chambers
snack and the mid-afternoon boys’ tea, buttoday he had missed both because of the
work he had to finish. Howhe longed to be home.
Harry was a handsome boy. His pale skin had a gold sheen to it andhis dark hair was
thick and lustrous. The seventh grader was alreadyfive feet four inches tall and had
delicate features. His face was a picture
of innocence —delicate lips, chiselled nose and emerald-green
eyes.

He had asked his mother, Josephine, many times why he had to bein Eton when he
could have lived with her in idyllic Grasmere andattend day school nearby. He was
only allowed home for long leaveevery half, and for short leave, twice, once in the
Michaelmas half andonce in the Lent half. Mum would say that ever since his dad
passedaway, she had to look after Harry alone. The only way she could afford
a decent life for them— including the outrageous Eton boarding

fees—was by working at a furious pace. How
hard
could
a
painter's
work
be, thought Harry. Most artists painted because the sale of theirwork allowed them to
eat, drink and copulate. And she never seemedto sell any of her paintings—the house
was full of them. Josephinehad chosen not to tell Harry that his patron was an old man
in India—
a man whose generosity allowed Josephine to lead an artist'slife—Pandit Gangasagar
Mishra. Ever since Josephine and her fatherhad looked after Chandini, Gangasagar
had considered it his duty tolook after Josephine.
Eton provided for every imaginable sport one could think
of—soccer, rugby, hockey, cricket, basketball, rowing, athletics, fencing,
martial arts—the list was endless. For the less sporting, everymusical instrument—
including the didgeridoo—was offered in thestate-of-the-art music department, which
included an incredible music
technology suite and recording studio. There were two theatres inthe school and the
theatrically inclined could engage in school plays,
house plays and even scriptwriting. Beyond this, Eton offered painting,
drawing, sculpture, ceramics, printmaking, debating and elocution.
But Harry's only interest was his violin. His had been among theeight music
scholarships that had been awarded the previous yearand it had been a test of
endurance to get it. The Music ScholarshipExamination was held at Eton in late
January and candidates wererequired to play two contrasting pieces on their principal
instrumentand one piece on their second instrument, to sight-read, undergo aural

tests and perform scales appropriate to their grades. Harry hadpassed with flying
colours—he had been a Grade Eight on the violineven before he entered Eton. It was
almost as though he had beenborn to the sounds of a string quartet in the background.
Josephine
bought
a
gramophone
that
she
installed
in
one
corner
ofChandini's
room.
She
managed
to
source
longplaying
records
of
Chandini's
favourite
music—violin
concertos
by
Bach,

Beethoven,

Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Paganini. Chandini would sit by the windowgazing out at
the serene Grasmere surrounded by gentle walks and craggypeaks. Josephine would
often go to the market while Chandini meditated
to the sounds of the violin. Sometimes, when Josephine returned,
she would notice that Chandini's eyes were moist and her face stainedwith dried tears.
Sounds of the violin reminded her too much of Geoffrey.
Josephine tried to cheer her up by placing a vase of fresh pink chrysanthemums
on the windowsill every few days—they were Chandini's favourite
flowers.
Eight weeks after moving in, Chandini was ready to deliver. She hadnot realised that it
would be the equivalent of pushing a bowling ballthrough a nostril. Josephine held her
hand while the matron checked hercervix for dilation. Blood and amniotic fluid were
seeping out as the nurseurged her to push. Chandini pushed and blacked out as she
felt a bodycovered in slippery gob gush out of her.
When Chandini awoke, she realised that she had been cleaned up andwheeled back
into her room with the flowerpatterned curtains that frameda picture postcard view of
the lake. Josephine was sitting by her side,
gently running her fingers through Chandini's hair. Chandini took onelook at Josephine
and she knew instantly.
‘I'm so sorry, honey,’ Josephine whispered, ‘the doctor says you canhave others but
this one was stillborn’.
‘Bhabua State Cooperative Bank,’ said Gangasagar.
‘What is that?’ asked Agrawalji.

‘I need to ask our appointee, the Reserve Bank of India's governor,
to investigate the bank.’
‘Why?’
Gangasagar held up a share transfer form. He had a whole bunchof them in front of
him. ‘See this transaction? Shiva Finance Pvt. Ltd
sold this batch of stocks to Vishnu Investments Pvt. Ltd.’

‘Since when did selling company stocks become a crime? In anycase, what does it
have to do with an unobtrusive little cooperativebank in the state of Bihar?’
‘Dig a little deeper, my friend. Vishnu Investments Pvt. Ltd soldthis same batch of
shares to Brahma Securities Pvt. Ltd.’
‘I'm still confused, Ganga. The whole point of sharetrading is tobuy and sell. What
exactly have these companies done wrong? Andhow is Bhabua State Cooperative
Bank involved?’
‘Don't you get it? The sacred trinity of the Hindus— BrahmaVishnu-
Shiva?’
‘Sorry, I just don't see what you're driving at.’
‘Brahma—the creator, Vishnu—the preserver, Shiva— the destroyer.
Three facets of one single entity. Don't you see that all threeentities are owned by the
same promoter?’
‘Even so, what's the problem?’
‘Here's the problem. Shiva sells this batch of stocks to Vishnu ona Monday for 140
rupees per share, the prevailing market price. Thenext day—Tuesday—Vishnu sells
the shares to Brahma for 150 rupees
per share, a little higher than the market price. On Wednesday,
Brahma sells the shares back to Shiva for 160 rupees each!’
‘So?’

‘Shiva loses twenty rupees per share and Vishnu and Brahma gain
ten rupees each. It's a zero sum game if all the entities belong to thesame promoter!’
‘But why do it? There's nothing to gain.’
‘Because if you do it often enough with the same set of shares andwith enough money,
you'll end up driving the market price upwards.
The share scrip that was traded by these three entities went up fourteen
per cent in three days! Three days!’
‘And where does the money for these trades come from?’
‘Bhabua State Cooperative Bank.’

‘But banks have to maintain a cash reserve ratio. There's no waythat a small bank in
Bihar's rural heartland can possibly advancelarge amounts for stock speculation
without the regulator knowing,’
argued Agrawalji.
‘Simple solution. Banks only need to report their cash balances tothe Reserve Bank of
India every fortnight. There are thirteen daysin between when no reporting happens.
Trades are executed duringthese thirteen days and the accounts settled on the
fourteenth. Theregulator never knows.’
‘So why not go after the share traders? They're the ones who arespeculating.’
‘Because Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva are owned by a very important
man.’
‘Who?’
‘The chief minister of Bihar.’
‘And what do you hope to achieve by going after Bhabua DistrictCooperative Bank?’
‘What happens each time the music stops in a game of musicalchairs?’
‘There is always one chair short?’
‘Precisely. Freeze the bank's transactions in the middle of their reporting
fortnight. They'll be unable to explain the mismatch in funds.
That's the reason I wanted my own man in the Reserve Bank of India.’

‘And what do you gain?’
‘A nervous chief minister of Bihar.’
Chandini reached the village after travelling the last mile on foot.
Jitaura Musahar Tola in East Champaran district of Bihar was a village
without roads, electricity, drinking water, schools or hospitals.

It was almost as though civilisation had decided to entirely bypassJitaura.
She was spending the night in a Dalit home, if the hut could becalled that. Infested with
mosquitoes, bandicoots and snakes, theshack provided virtually no shelter from the
elements. Spreading amat on the mud floor outside the hut, she held an impromptu
openhouse
with other Dalits and shared a frugal meal—rotis, onion andsalt—with them.
These were human beings who were labelled untouchables
by Brahmins at one time. Even though untouchability hadbeen banned half a century
earlier, the stigma remained. She wasmoved to tears as she heard of poor labourers
being forced to selltheir children into bonded labour so that they could earn a meal.
Back in New Delhi, two days later, she met Gangasagar at her official
bungalow at 19, Teen Murti Lane. ‘Why did you send me there?
The situation is so completely hopeless! Out of two hundred children
in the hamlet, only three attend school! The nearest school issix miles away! Forget
about hospitals, there isn't even a dispensaryto provide basic medication. Sanitation
doesn't exist—typhoid andcholera are the villagers’ most frequent callers, visiting them
everynow and again. Doesn't it worry you?’ she asked.
‘Worry is like a rocking chair; it keeps you in motion, but gets younowhere,’ replied
Gangasagar, swaying back and forth on the lounger
he was seated on. ‘I have asked Agrawalji to set up a privatelyfunded
trust. The money from R&S won't be used entirely for political
ends. It shall identify Dalit villages in Bihar—the poorest of thepoor—and focus on a
few simple issues.’
‘What issues?’
‘A primary school, clean drinking water, a basic healthcare centre

and the guarantee of daily nutrition.’
‘And which villages are the beneficiaries?’
‘Villages in Rohtas and Bhabua districts of Bihar.’
‘Does the choice of Rohtas and Bhabua have anything to do withthe fact that these
districts are the electoral strongholds of Bihar'sDalit chief minister?’ asked Chandini
shrewdly.

‘The chief minister of Bihar wishes to have a meeting with you,’ saidMenon.
‘Ah!’ said Gangasagar smiling.
‘Why are you so interested in Bihar?’ asked Chandini, ‘Our stronghold
is in Uttar Pradesh.’
‘Dear girl, Bihar sends fifty-four MP's to the Lok Sabha. During thelast general
elections the chief minister of Bihar had a seat-sharingarrangement with the ruling
party. His party contested fifty per centof the seats and the ruling party contested the
other fifty. He now
wants to contest all
the seats on his own in the next elections.’
‘So why does he need us?’
‘Because if he has an alliance with us, we would contest onlyUttar Pradesh seats—not
Bihar's, and he would contest only Bihar
seats—not Uttar Pradesh's. It works for both of us.’
‘But you sent me to his stronghold in Bihar!’
‘How else could I have got him on the run?’
‘Then you used Agrawalji to get his bank in trouble with the regulators.’
‘A run on the bank was the perfect method to set the chief ministeron the run. Judging
by the looks of it, my scheme seems to haveworked!’

‘But Bihar in itself cannot get us a majority in the house. Evenassuming that eighty-five
seats of Uttar Pradesh are with the ABNSand fifty-four of Bihar with him, we only make
a hundred and thirtynine.
That's still only half of what we need to form a government on
our own.’
‘The Bihar chief minister will do the rest.’
‘How?’
‘Didn't you know that he's an intimate friend of the leader of the
Opposition?’

‘The Americans have decided to supply a couple of billion dollars’worth of military
hardware to Pakistan,’ stated the RAW chief. ‘Thenews isn't public as yet but will be
announced next month by theWhite House.’
‘They're playing a dangerous game,’ said Chandini. ‘They knowthat Pakistan's army is
busy fighting India rather than concentratingon their real enemy, Islamic militancy.’
‘Can't we convince the Americans that it isn't in their own interest
to be supplying arms to Pakistan?’ enquired the director of the Intelligence
Bureau.
‘Everything's been tried. There's no diplomatic channel that hasn'tbeen explored. Our
lobbyists even met with the American President'slatest infatuation. She's rather
pretty—a little chubby though,’ saidChandini smiling.
‘I have an idea,’ said the director.
‘What?’ asked Chandini.
‘Gas,’ said the director.
‘I'm sorry to hear that. Can I get you an antiflatulent?’ askedChandini.
‘Not gas. Gas centrifuges,’ said the embarrassed director.
‘What are you both going on about?’ asked the RAW chief crossly.
He was feeling left out of the earthshattering discussion on wind.
‘The designs of the gas centrifuges used by the Pakistanis to produce
nuclear material at their atomic reactors were stolen from a

company called Uronico in Germany,’ explained the director.
‘So what? Most of Pakistan's nuclear programme consists of stolentechnology,’ said
Chandini.
‘Yes, but Uronico's designs were based on a Russian design. TheRussians would
willingly share the design with us, if you askedthem,’ said the director.

‘Why should I want to obtain antiquated designs for a technologythat we already
have?’ asked Chandini incredulously.
‘Because I have a man in my department who is terrific at creatingantiquated
designs—he used to work for the Archaeological Survey,’
said the director.
‘And how would that help us?’ snapped the RAW chief.
‘We could have the drawings secretly sold to North Korea andLibya,’ said the director.
‘That's preposterous! We've never engaged in proliferation,’ saidChandini.
‘That's where my chap comes into the picture,’ said the director,
relishing the attention he was now commanding. The former policecommissioner was
now in his element. ‘He'll build in a couple offlaws that make the technology useless.
But he'll make it authenticenough to ensure provenance.’
‘But how does this help in our negotiations with the Americans?’
asked Chandini.
‘Ah! The designs will indicate that they are Uronico plans redrawnin Pakistan. I'm
assuming that with the ruckus that will follow, you'llbe able to get the Americans to
drop their plans to supply hardwareto proliferators.’
‘I'm assuming that a large chunk of the money coming in as commissions
from R&S is being used as we discussed?’ asked Gangasagar.

Agrawalji nodded. ‘Besides a small fraction for the work of thetrust in Bihar, the
balance is all going towards buying the shares ofSentiosys. We now own five per cent
of the company.’
‘Good,’ said Gangasagar.
‘But why are we buying Sentiosys?’ asked Agrawalji. ‘There arebetter software
companies that we could invest in. We'd double thereturn on our investment!’

‘I like the sound of its name,’ said Gangasagar, winking at hisformer boss.
‘The leader of the Opposition on a point of order?’ asked the Speaker.
‘Yes, Mr Speaker, sir. My question was regarding this government's
handling of the recent hijack—’
‘The leader of the Opposition shall resume his seat. The PrimeMinister has just begun
narrating his version of the events. Thishouse shall hear him—’
‘On a point of order, Mr Speaker. The Prime Minister was not evenpresent in the
control room. The minister for external affairs was.
We'd like to hear from her,’ argued the leader of the Opposition.
The Prime Minister sat down, allowing Chandini to get up andspeak. ‘The hon'ble
minister for external affairs may address thehouse,’ said the Speaker.
Sitting in the visitor's gallery, Gangasagar smiled. The leader ofthe Opposition was
turning Chandini into a star.
‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Prithum

Bhagvati,
Namo
Namah;
Kundalini
Mata
Shakti;
Mata
Shakti,
NamoNamah,’ chanted Gangasagar to himself.
‘You should resign. In fact, the entire ABNS contingent in the Cabinetshould resign.’
‘But we're seen as part of the government,’ argued Chandini. ‘Wecan't be seen to be
pulling it down!’
‘Not unless you have a very good reason,’ said Gangasagar. Hecarefully opened his
little silver box—a gift from Agrawalji—tookout a paan and thoughtfully placed it in his
mouth. He allowed thejuices to swirl around inside his mouth as his brain whirred—
foodfor thought. He was sitting along with Chandini in the backseat of

her official car as they drove towards the building in South Blockthat housed the
ministry of external affairs.
‘And the good reason?’ asked Chandini.
‘This is the perfect opportunity to bring down this governmentand bring about fresh
elections,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I had a meetingwith our friend, the director of the
Intelligence Bureau, this morning.
He said Rashid was released from interrogation at the behest of thePrime Minister.’
‘Why was that man released? He was plotting to kill me!’
‘While that's true,’ said Gangasagar, ‘it's equally true that Rashidwas actually
Makhmud, a RAW agent, and you—my dear—were instrumental
in having him arrested by the Chinese. Can't blame a manfor getting upset.’ He
grinned when he saw the scowl on Chandini'sface.
He quickly resumed. ‘But there's no way that the prime ministercan reveal that
Rashid's a RAW agent. This is our opportunity toglorify Ikram, the ABNS hero who died
for his country. It's alsoour chance to demonise the dastardly prime minister—releasing
thekingpin of the plot, Rashid. And finally you, the noble inheritor ofIkram's legacy—
resigning in disgust along with all your colleagues of
the ABNS!’
‘How will we prove it?’
‘The IB director is willing to go public. He'll announce that he had

Rashid in custody and that he was forced to release him at the behestof the prime
minister.’
‘If we resign, this government collapses. You do realise that?’
‘This government has seen its own finance minister and primeminister resign in the
aftermath of numerous scams. Our arrangement
with the Bihar chief minister is in place. The leader of the Opposition
is waiting for a sign. We should not wait any further.’
‘What sign is the Opposition leader waiting for?’
‘It looks like the letter “R” dissected by a horizontal line.’
‘Huh?’

‘The rupee sign.’
‘These are difficult times. The Opposition seems to be sharpeningtheir knives. Of
course, I am with you. The whole ABNS is with you.
You have our assured support,’ said Gangasagar to the prime minister.
‘Then why am I hearing stories about the imminent resignation ofyour ministers from
the Cabinet, Gangasagarji?’ asked the worriedpremier.
‘Rumours travel fast but don't stay put for as long as the truth. Youshould disregard
such stories.’
‘I'm happy that we've had this discussion. Now, what is it that youwanted to see me
about?’
‘Well, given the uncertainties that surround us, I believe that someamount of divine
intervention is called for.’
‘What do you suggest, Gangasagarji. I didn't know you were oneto believe in praying
for God's blessings.’
‘Sometimes, kneeling keeps us in good standing,’ joked Gangasagar.
‘In any case, I plan to visit Mumbai later today. As you know,
the Ganesha festival is currently being celebrated and I'm paying myrespects to
Lalbaugcha Raja.’
The prime minister nodded. He'd heard about Lalbaugcha Raja buthad never had the
opportunity of visiting. Each year during the festival,

a massive twelvefoot high idol of Ganesha would be installed inLalbaug— in the heart
of Mumbai's textile mill district—and over amillion devotees would throng to him each
day over the next elevendays.
‘It is claimed that this year over a hundred million rupees will getcollected as offerings
to the deity,’ said the premier.
‘Absolutely. I have brought here with me a few thousand rupees,
which I would like you to hold in your hands before I take this offering
with me to Lalbaugcha Raja on your behalf and pray for our

continued success,’ said Gangasagar as he handed over a bundle ofcrisp thousandrupee
notes to the prime minister.
‘Thank you, Gangasagarji, for being such a good friend of my government.
Man's way leads to a hopeless end but God's way leads toendless hope,’ said the
prime minister as he handed back the cash toGangasagar.
The horseshoe-shaped chamber of the Lok Sabha had the Speaker'schair located
between the two arms. In the pit of the chamber, justbelow his chair, was the Table of
the House where the secretary-general,
secretariat officers and recorders of the proceedings sat. To theSpeaker's right were
the government benches and to his left sat themembers of the Opposition. The prime
minister sat at his customary
seat in the front row of the government benches. Towards theleft was the special box
reserved for VIPs inside which sat Gangasagar.
Also seated on the first row of the government benches wasChandini. Dressed in a
citrus-green saree, her ensemble—togetherwith her green eyes—blended in perfectly
with the green leather ofthe chamber of the world's largest democracy.
Overlooking the chamber opposite the Speaker was a large portrait
of Vithalbhai Patel, the first elected president of the Central Legislative
Assembly, a man who had stood for high parliamentary traditions.
The face in the portrait did not seem to foresee that all parliamentary
traditions were about to be broken that day.
‘The hon'ble minister for power may address the House,’ said theSpeaker.
‘Hon'ble Speaker, sir, I beg to move for leave to introduce a Billto provide for the
establishment of a Central Electricity Regulatory

Commission and for matters connected therewith or incidentalthereto,’ said the
minister for power.
‘Motion moved,’ said the Speaker mechanically.

‘Sir, I have given a notice under Rule 72 to oppose the introduction
of this Bill,’ said the leader of the Opposition, rising from his
seat.
‘Yes, yes. The Hon'ble leader of the Opposition may address theHouse,’ said the
Speaker.
‘Sir, I hold in my hands over a million rupees. This money was given
as a bribe by the Prime Minister to one of our honourable members
to secure his vote for this Bill in Parliament. I demand an immediate
statement—’
The premier's face turned ashen as the proceedings descendedinto chaos. The uproar
was deafening, with the Opposition membersshouting ‘Shame!’ and the occupants of
the government benchesyelling ‘Liar!’ The leader of the Opposition, still standing
withbundles of cash in his hands, screamed above the din, ‘These notes
were handed over by the prime minister himself. Let the country'sinvestigating
agencies check to see whether his fingerprints are onthem or not!’
Trying to be heard above the din, the Speaker shouted, ‘I requestall the members to
please take their seats. There's simply no reasonwhy this House cannot maintain
dignity and decorum.’
‘It isn't possible to maintain decorum when the prime ministerhimself indulges in acts of
corruption—this government is rotten tothe core and this House has lost confidence in
it!’ The voice was not
from the Opposition benches. It was Chandini's. ‘At this moment, alleight members of
the ABNS have handed in their resignations. Thisadministration has allowed a key
operative responsible for the sabotage

attempt on my helicopter and the subsequent hijack of IC-617to walk free! Is this how
we should honour the memory of the lateIkram Shaikh, who sacrificed his life for the
nation?’
The members of the Opposition rushed into the well of the houseand the Speaker was
left with little alternative but to adjourn theproceedings. In the visitor's gallery,
Gangasagar watched the happenings
and snickered. Chandini had been planning to hand in her resig

nation to the prime minister the previous day. He had advised heragainst it.
‘But you advised us to resign. Why not let us hand in our letters?’
she had demanded.
‘Because I want live television cameras present when you do,’ hehad said.
‘How are we doing with Sentiosys?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘We now own twenty-five per cent of the company.’
‘Good,’ said Gangasagar.
‘I still don't understand why we're buying Sentiosys,’ said
Agrawalji. ‘The company has shown losses for the past three years.
The commissions flowing in from R&S are huge and yet we persist inthrowing good
money into bad deals. Why?’
‘I like the cover design of their annual report,’ said Gangasagarcheerily.
‘Did you get Chandini to agree to procuring the gas centrifugedesigns from the
Russians?’ asked Gangasagar. The IB director nodded.
‘And were these redrafted to resemble the Uronico plans, as Iasked?’
‘Yes—beautifully and aesthetically.’

‘Did you get the RAW chief to sell the plans to the North Koreans?’
asked the Pandit.
‘They fell over themselves to buy it,’ said the director. ‘They're under
the impression they've acquired the plans through the Pakistaniblack market.’
‘And the money?’

‘Transferred to the Liechtenstein bank account number that yougave me.’
‘Good man. Your debt to me for having you promoted from policecommissioner to
Director Intelligence Bureau is now repaid.’
The backyard of the sadhvi's cottage in Simla was quiet. The sadhvi—the
blessed mother—sat facing a roaring fire. Opposite her, satthree prime
ministers. The first was her father—the previous premier
who had been forced to resign because of Gangasagar's press leaksabout his
relationship with the sadhvi. The second was the man whohad clambered down a rope
ladder from a helicopter following Gangasagar's
advice—the former defence minister. He had usurped theprime ministerial chair only to
have his government pulled down bythe telecom, fodder, SEZ and petroleum scams.
The third was thecurrent prime minister—the home minister whose portfolio had
beenpassed on to Ikram—brought down by the recent cash-for-votes scandal
and just a caretaker till the next elections.
In front of the three men lay the carcass of a goat covered in blackcloth, with a small
idol, moulded out of dough, placed on top. Surrounding
it were odd items such as lemons, nails, yellow rice andchicken bones. The sadhvi was
tending the fire. ‘Om
lingalingalinalinga,
kilikili…’ she chanted as she threw mustard seeds and secret
ingredients into the fire, producing strange colours, crackling soundsand odd-smelling
vapours.
She nodded at her father. He dipped the oldfashioned quill intoa bowl containing the
goat's blood and carefully wrote ‘Gangasagar’on a chit of paper. He then reached over
and handed the chit to her.

She dipped the chit into a pot of melted butter and then threw it intothe fire. It burst into
flames.
She sprinkled water on the dough idol and mopped it with peacock
feathers while delicately placing a string around the idol's neck.
She gestured for the former defence minister to hold one end ofthe string while she
held the other. As they both pulled, the string

tightened around the doughboy's neck like a hangman's noose untilthe head separated
and rolled into the fire.
She then signalled to the cash-for-votes-stung premier. With eachchant by the sadhvi
of ‘Om lingalingalinalinga, kilikili…’ the caretaker
prime minister would pick up a nail from the pile next to himand thrust it into the torso
of the headless dough idol. The sadhvilaughed and the three men smiled in
satisfaction. The black magiccurse was final. That machinator, Gangasagar, was to
learn a lesson.
The meeting was held in the seclusion of the sadhvi's cottage. Thereporter could not
believe he was sitting with the man whose reputation
he had helped destroy. The sadhvi-tainted ex-prime ministeroffered him a cup of tea
and then settled into his own armchair. ‘Irequested you here to tell you that I have
nothing against you. Youwere simply doing your job. The fourth estate must remain
independent
and fearless if democracy is to flourish in India,’ said theseasoned politician. The
reporter shrugged his shoulders but keptquiet.
‘I'm given to understand that before you were offered the juicytidbit about the sadhvi—
the blessed mother— being my illegitimatedaughter, you were out sniffing another
story. A story aboutChandini,’ said the former statesman, smiling at the reporter.
‘What if I was?’ asked the reporter, trying his best to appear uninterested
even though his ears had perked up.
‘What if I told you that a trust fund was established by Gangasagarin Guernsey—in the
Channel Islands— in order to meet the education
and living expenses of a mother and her son in Grasmere in theLake District?’

‘So? The old man's not a brahmacharya after all. Big deal if hebanged up a woman—
so did you!’ said the reporter winking at theprevious premier.
‘You've not understood the story, my friend. Gangasagar has nothing
to do with the mother or child. That child belongs to

Chandini—the beloved primeministerial candidate of the masses ofIndia!’
‘And how did you get this information?’ asked the reporter, knowing
full well that if someone else were to have asked him that question
he would have said he was not at liberty to reveal his sources.
‘The former finance minister obtained the information for me
from the director of the Guernsey Financial Services Commission. Aspecial favour,’
explained the wrinkled and forgotten prime minister.
‘My sources have indicated that a child was born to Chandini butthat it was stillborn,’
said the reporter, carefully choosing his words.
‘She had tried to abort it earlier, but had a change of heart.’
‘Your sources are wrong,’ smiled the politician.
‘I shall need to verify the facts for myself.’
‘That's why I've arranged a ticket and foreign exchange. Howquickly can you get
going?’
‘There is a eunuch called Hameeda who lives near Tundey's Kebabsin Lucknow. I
need to meet her,’ said the caretaker prime minister.
The bedlam in Parliament had forced another round of general elections
on India and the country was under President's Rule. His government
was a lame duck.
‘I didn't realise the First Lady had given birth, I shall immediately—’
started his private secretary.

‘It isn't the fucking First Lady,’ snapped the premier, realising atad too late that he had
created a title of sorts for his wife. ‘I don't
need blessings for a newborn. I need this particular eunuch. That'sall—get it done!’
Hameeda had been asked to dress well for the occasion. She couldn't
be taken inside the prime minister's bungalow looking like a eunuch.

What would the security guards think? The prime minister's privatesecretary had
arranged for a haircut and a business suit. ‘Will I beable to keep the clothes?’ asked
Hameeda.
The private secretary had nodded. No one would want the clothesafter they'd been
used by her, anyway. The security detail at thegate issued Hameeda a visitor's pass. It
was laminated and suspendedfrom a blue neck cord. The private secretary handed it
over to her. ‘Itworks for most of South Block, North Block and Rashtrapati Bhavanfor
the next sixty minutes. Return it to the guard on your way out,’
he said as Hameeda hung the barcoded pass around her neck.
As they walked into the office, the PM looked at Hameeda andasked slyly, ‘What would
you do if I told you that there's an opportunity
to get back at Gangasagar?’
‘I spend each waking moment plotting ways to kill him. I even seemyself murdering him
in my dreams. He didn't just have my ballschopped off, he castrated my life!’ spat out
Hameeda.
‘There's a way you can destroy him, honey. Tell Chandini thatGangasagar arranged
for Ikram to be bumped off during the hijackencounter.’
‘But that isn't true. Ikrambhai was killed by Rashid.’
‘But she'll believe you. You lost your family jewels trying to protect
her!’
The meeting with Hameeda lasted less than twenty minutes. Onher way out Hameeda
stumbled and, much to the embarrassmentof the hapless private secretary, fell on him

with her arms aroundhis neck. ‘Seems like we're destined for one another,’ she
whisperedlecherously into his ear. He shuddered.
As Hameeda left, she dropped her visitor's pass into the slot forused passes. She
didn't need it anymore. She had the private secret-
ary's instead. Training under Sachla Devi had its advantages.

The former finance minister was seated in a comfortable armchair,
flanked by Rungta and Somany. ‘You sacrificed me to resurrect yourdeals. I can
understand that. All's fair in business. But why did youagree to let ten per cent of your
revenues go to Agrawalji? All you'redoing is making them financially stronger,’ he
urged.
‘I agree that we overpaid,’ said Rungta, ‘but now we're stuck. It'simpossible to back
out.’
‘There is one way,’ said the politician softly. ‘Drive a wedgebetween Gangasagar and
Chandini. She's the one who now has anational stature. She could quite easily be the
next prime minister.
Make her hate Gangasagar and she'll happily go along with revokingany arrangements
Gangasagar may have made.’
‘But how do we drive that wedge between them?’ asked Somany.
‘If the rumour mills are true, she had an affair with her secretary—
a chap called Shankar. Gangasagar was so upset that he had
him killed in a hit-and-run.’
‘How does one prove it?’ asked Somany.
‘When it comes to matters of the heart, it won't be your job to
prove anything, my friends. It'll be for Gangasagar to disprove it.’
The caretaker prime minister called in his private secretary. ‘Thiselection is going to be
different,’ he said, sipping his iced tea.

‘How so, sir?’ asked his respectful private secretary, his confidantof many years.
‘Ikram's not around. Who's going to make sure that no dirty tricksare employed in Uttar
Pradesh? Ikram's goons would man all thepolling stations and would ensure that no
ballot-stuffing could happen.
Gangasagar has lost a valuable asset.’
‘So is that an opportunity?’ enquired the private secretary, smilingat his boss.

‘How much of Sentiosys do we now own?’ asked Gangasagar.
‘Fifty-one per cent,’ replied Agrawalji, shaking his head. It hadbeen one of the worst
investments that he'd ever made.
‘Excellent,’ said Gangasagar, ‘we can now call the shots in management.’
‘I am unable to understand you most times, Ganga. You're sodamned obstinate. Are
you going to tell me why this company is soimportant to you?’
‘I'm told their CEO is just twenty-four. I like supporting youngsters,’
said Gangasagar, chuckling.
Gangasagar was busy catching up on the previous day's neglectednewspapers. He
folded the paper he was reading and dropped it onthe floor in a pile of other discarded
papers. Gangasagar, Chandini,
Agrawalji, Menon and Major Bedi were having their session onstrategy in
Gangasagar's cubby-hole flat in Kanpur.
‘Have you considered moving out of this dump?’ Chandini hadasked him after they had
joined the government in New Delhi.
‘You're one of the most powerful men in the country and yet you persist
with a life of penury.’
‘Never forget my lesson about the power of renunciation, deargirl,’ he had replied.

‘Isn't this meant to be a meeting with Major Bedi on electionstrategy? We still need to
finalise candidates for the upcoming LokSabha elections and you continue to read your
newspapers,’ saidChandini irritably.
‘There are four of you to decide election strategy. I'd rather keepmyself posted on
what's going on in the country,’ replied Gangasagar.
‘But you never used to read the Economic
Times
and Financial
Express.
Why have you started getting interested in financial mattersrather than political?’ asked
Chandini.

‘It's all the bloody same! Political power hopes to control the economic
resources of the country. Economic power hopes to control thepoliticians,’ he replied
jovially. He resumed scanning the companyreports, particularly those of Sentiosys.
‘So, if I may have your attention for a moment, our candidates forthe eighty-five Uttar
Pradesh seats will be a mix of incumbents andfreshers—’ began Major Bedi.
Gangasagar looked up from his crumpled Financial
Express
and
asked, ‘What was our share of the vote in the last elections?’
‘Thirty per cent,’ replied Major Bedi.
‘And yet we won seventy-six per cent of the seats. What does thattell you?’ asked
Gangasagar.
‘That we won not because we had a high share of the vote butbecause the remaining
votes were adequately divided,’ said Bedi, adjusting
his turban and attempting to make himself comfortable inGangasagar's untidy
surroundings.
‘Don't worry about identifying strong candidates who can increaseour vote-share. Voteshare
is meaningless. Instead, concentrate oncausing divisions and fractures in
everyone else's share,’ said Gangasagar
triumphantly.
‘And how do you propose we do that?’ asked Chandini.

‘I'm working on it,’ said Gangasagar, absentmindedly looking atthe Sentiosys financials
in the newspaper lying before him.
‘Ikrambhai's missing this time around. There'll be no one to handlethe polling booths if
they're captured by the Opposition,’ said Menonto Gangasagar once all the others had
left.
‘You know what makes a humble sandwich taste great?’ askedGangasagar, ignoring
the observation regarding Ikram's absence.
‘What?’ asked Menon.
‘Chips on the side,’ said Gangasagar.

‘EVM!’ said Gangasagar loudly.
‘Excuse me sir?’ said Menon.
‘Electronic Voting Machines. They're being used in these elections.
No more paper ballots.’
‘Ah, yes. They're saying it's more efficient and accurate,’ said Men-
on.
‘Do you know what's at the heart of these EVMs, Menon?’
‘What?’
‘Chips,’ said Gangasagar. ‘The EVM is like a sandwich. It's of no
use without the chips!’
‘Did you know that it's a complex algorithm that powers the chipsinside these EVMs?’
asked Gangasagar.
Agrawalji stopped pouring the tea from his cup into his saucer.
‘No, I didn't,’ he said. ‘Any reason I should know this?’
‘Well, the EVMs are made by different companies but they all usethe same central
chip. It's the one that contains the software to makethe machine register a vote and to
tally the results.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Agrawalji, slurping his tea nosily from the saucer.
‘Ever learnt any Latin?’ asked Gangasagar suddenly.
‘No. I studied English, Hindi and Sanskrit. Never Latin.’

‘That explains it.’
‘What?’ ‘Why you didn't realise that the word vote
in English translates
to sentio
in Latin. You now own the company that makes thechips—Sentiosys.’

‘But—but—that's cheating, Ganga. We can't rig these machines togive ourselves more
votes,’ sputtered Agrawalji. There was seemingly
no limit to Gangasagar's schemes.
‘I agree. If the machines were rigged to give us more votes, itwould be cheating. But
what if they were rigged to give others morevotes?’ he asked innocently.
‘Are you a raving lunatic?’ asked Agrawalji, ‘You want to rig themachines so that they
give more votes to others?’
‘Only to those who need them,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Just what are you going on about, Ganga?’ asked the exasperatedAgrawalji.
‘Let's take the example of a hypothetical ABNS candidate fightingin a given
constituency. Supposing our candidate has fifty-one percent of the vote share, it's
obvious that he's the winner. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘But what if he has fifty per cent—not fifty-one— instead? Whatdetermines whether he
wins or loses?’
‘How the other fifty per cent is distributed?’
‘Correct. If the other fifty per cent is consolidated with one candidate,
we have a tie. But if it's divided across two or more candidates,
our candidate wins. Now, what happens if our candidate hasonly forty per cent of the
vote-share?’

‘Well, his winning or losing depends on how the remaining sixtyper cent is distributed.’
‘Correct. The remaining sixty per cent could be with one candidate,
in which case our man loses. If the sixty per cent is dividedacross two candidates, our
man still loses if the sixty per cent is divided
fifty-ten, but if the sixty per cent is divided thirty-thirty ourman wins.’
‘So what is it that you plan to do?’

‘The algorithm will determine dynamically what our candidate'svote-share is. It won't
add fictitious votes to our tally but simply reallocate
residual votes. I've always maintained that winning isn't onlyabout increasing our
strength but also about reducing the enemy's.
And let me tell you, we're surrounded by our enemies—people whowon't hesitate to
use every dirty trick in the book!’
Harry Richardson was excited. The two hundred and fifty seats ofthe Eton College
Concert Hall were packed to capacity. It had beenhis first ever solo performance and
he had been accompanied by theEton College Symphony Orchestra. The concert had
been arrangedafter the violin virtuoso Itzhak Perlman had heard Harry performwhile on
a visit to Eton. He then wrote his observations to the school.
‘Let's begin with Harry Richardson. He's an extraordinary violinistwith a virtuoso
technique fused to a musical mind that won't takethe slightest detail for granted. Harry
seems to find answers whereothers often don't see questions...’
Tonight's performance had been of Chaconne
in
D
minor
from
Partita
No.
2
in
D
minor, Bach's most famous piece of experimental
music. The Chaconne

was considered the pinnacle of the solo violinrepertoire in Bach's time because it
covered almost every aspect ofviolin-playing. Harry had chosen one of the most
difficult piecesever played and executed it flawlessly. He could see his mother—Josephine—in
the front row, enthusiastically applauding withthe rest of the
audience. They were giving him a standing ovation.
She was so proud of her precious boy.
The endorsement by Perlman had also ensured that there weremembers of the press
in the audience. Not just from Britain. Flasheslit up the room as photographs were
snapped of the child prodigy. Inthe distance, Harry could even see an Indian reporter
clicking away.
‘You killed Geoffrey!’ she screamed.

‘Chandini, listen to me—’ began Gangasagar.
‘You even had Shankar murdered!’ she wailed.
‘There were reasons—’ he started. ‘And what about Ikrambhai.
Did you have him killed too?’
‘As God's my witness, I loved that rogue. I'm willing to accept allyour accusations but
not that!’ thundered Gangasagar.
‘Uncle Ganga. I always knew that you were a ruthless man—thatyou'd do anything and
everything to achieve your ends—but I neverthought of you as heartless. Today, my
opinion's changed,’ she said,
dabbing at her tears with the edge of her saree.
‘The election results have already come out. It's certain that you'regoing to be the next
prime minister! Chandini, this is not the time tobe losing focus. We still have miles to
cover.’
‘There's no we—only you
and I. And I think we both need to goour separate ways. If I ditch you I'll get the
support of our caretakerprime minister who hates you anyway. He controls exactly the
number
of MPs that I need besides those of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.’
‘But he'll prop you up only to pull you down, Chandini. Don'tmake a pact with the devil,’
said Gangasagar.
‘Why not?’ she shouted. ‘I made one with you, didn't I?’

The microphone received the sound waves and vibrated the thindiaphragm, which
produced an electrical signal. The electric signalswere then beamed out by a
transmitter to the receiver several housesaway. In an air-conditioned room sat the
caretaker prime minister.
He laughed as he heard the conversation.
Chandini stormed out of Gangasagar's flat as Gangasagar shoutedafter her, ‘Chandini,
come back, I did it for you—’ but he was unableto complete the sentence. His words
were interrupted by a violentspasm of coughing. He ignored it until he noticed the red
specks ofblood on his kerchief.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
About 2300 years ago
T
T
he dacoits stood on a massive rock ledge and observed
Dhanananda's entourage make its way across the woods. Theirleader, a thug called
Bibhatsaka, was famed to have killed over athousand people. His dirty hair was wiry
and unkempt. He was cleanshaven
except for his moustache which was curled into circles on hischeeks. He wore
a stained white dhoti, thick leather sandals and had a
dark grey blanket thrown around him like a cloak. His skin was darkand leathery— the
result of inadequate bathing over many years—andhis teeth were stained with betel
nut.
He spat out a thick pellet of phlegm as he watched his prey. Hiseyes, bloodshot from
excessive drink, matched the dark red tilak thatwas prominent on his forehead. This
particular tilak, however, hadnot been made using vermillion pigment. It was a blood
mark fromhis latest victim. In his hand he held a cutlass, his lucky charm, not solucky
for the thousand throats it had slit open. In his other hand wasa sword that had been
gifted to him the previous night. It was worthit, thought Bibhatsaka. Each victim had not
only yielded loot but hadalso provided sacrifice to the Goddess Kali. He had built a
temple forher by the riverbank and always ensured that the blood of a fresh victim
was offered to her each day. The spot where his temple stood wasavoided by all and
sundry. It was called Kali Ghat.
‘We shall strike when they camp for the night,’ said Bibhatsaka.

‘There are too many people in the party, including guards. Betterto catch them
completely unaware. This is going to be fun!’ Hismen—around two dozen in number—
laughed. Their chief knew howto take care of his people. They were going to be rich.

Bibhatsaka was already rich. The clandestine midnight meetingwith Sharangrao had
ensured he would be paid irrespective of thehaul. Sharangrao had then handed over to
him the sword belongingto Bhadrashala and asked him to ensure that Dhanananda
was killed
with it, and that it was left at the scene of the crime.
‘But acharya, wouldn't it be wise to have the coronation of MaharajPaurus as emperor
of Magadha immediately?’ asked Indradutt.
‘The Venus-Charybdis conjunction around twentythree degreesSagittarius, is tightly
wrapped around Maharaj's natal Neptune and,
of course, the SaturnUranus opposition is present on Maharaj's natalMercury.
Therefore the theme of this coronation must revolvearound His Majesty's critical
Mercury-Saturn-NeptuneCharybdis pattern,’
said the plump rajpurohit as they sat in the massive pleasurechamber of Dhanananda.
Chanakya suppressed a grin. Astrology wassuch a wonderful science. You could get it
to say whatever youwanted without ever having to actually say it.
‘What does that mean?’ asked a bewildered Paurus.
‘It means that you shall have to wait for two more days and twomore nights for the high
noon of your coronation, O mighty King,’
interjected Chanakya.
‘But what shall I do till then?’ asked Paurus.
‘I think I have just the solution to keep His Majesty occupied,’ sug

gested Chanakya, as Vishaka gracefully walked in like a tigress.
‘Is the tiger ready?’ Chanakya asked. Jeevasiddhi nodded. ‘Good.
Have your secret agents keep him caged in the jungle till Chandragupta
reaches there. You shall uncage him once Chandragupta's insight, is that understood?’
instructed Chanakya as he handed overthe pouch to Jeevasiddhi. ‘Make sure the
animal's water is spikedwith this. It will make him drowsy and sluggish,’ he said.

The largest member of the cat-tribe and the most formidable of allliving flesh-eaters
was the preferred sport of kings of Magadha. Themost common hunting technique was
hanka—the beat—by whichthe beast would be driven towards the waiting hunter by
baitingit with live buffaloes tethered in the jungle while drummers droveit into more
tightly defined territory. Chandragupta was stationedin a machaan—a treetop
platform— hidden away twenty feet abovethe ground. Smeared on his face was a
disgusting, lipid-rich, foulsmelling
fluid that had been previously extracted from the urinarytract of a slain tigress.
His helpers lay crouched on other machaansin the area waiting for the mighty cat to
make its appearance. Therewas complete silence in the forest, the only sound being
that of batedbreath.
The hundreds of beaters and baiters accompanying Chandraguptahad no clue of the
elaborate manoeuvres that were being orchestrated
backstage by Jeevasiddhi. Jeevasiddhi nodded to his aide andthe man pulled the rope
that opened the gate of the cage and quietlyreleased the magnificent beast into the
target area. The drowsy animal
walked out of the open cage and sniffed. Tigers were blessedwith acute hearing, keen
eyesight but not very accurate smell. Butthis smell was different and any male tiger
would be a fool not topick up on it. It contained pheromones that induced sexual
excitement.
As the tiger sauntered into the tightly constricted space that laybelow Chandragupta's
machaan, the noble king jumped down tothe ground and faced the feline squarely,
instead of hurling hisspear from above. The narcotised animal could barely keep its
eyesopen—all that it knew was that it needed to find the source of thescent—the
pheromones of love.

The animal soon realised that the bouquet was emanating fromthe cheek of the
lovable hunter in front of it. Chandragupta kneeleddown, his spear ready to take care
of any unfortunate miscalculation,
just as the gigantic beast opened its jaws, put out its tongue andlapped up the terrible
stinking gob on Chandragupta's cheeks beforepassing out.

‘It's a divine sign!’ whispered one of the helpers of the hunt. ‘It's amiracle!
Chandragupta has heavenly aid. If this isn't a supernaturalhappening, what is?’
‘I agree,’ said another. ‘This occurrence is one in a million. It's abenediction from God.
It's celestial intervention telling the people ofMagadha that their true king has arrived
and is among them. Thatking is none other than the great Chandragupta!’
Paurus lay dead with his face nestled in Vishaka's bosom on thesilken bedspread of
the chamber in Pataliputra's royal pleasurepalace, while the peacocks in the royal
garden outside continued todance.
Dhanananda's lifeless body lay in the forest with Bhadrashala'sbloodstained sword by
its side. Bibhatsaka had taken some of
Dhanananda's blood to offer to his diety in Kali Ghat by the riverbank.
The sleeping tiger in the forest snored contentedly.
Chanakya, Chandragupta, Sharangrao and Katyayan were seated inthe royal council
hall, deliberating their next move. A magistrateof Magadha stood before them, awaiting
instructions. ‘Arrest
Bhadrashala immediately and have him hanged,’ Chanakya instructed
the magistrate who hurried out to obey and please his new master.
‘Bhadrashala helped us, acharya, we should be lenient with him.
We know that he wasn't behind Dhanananda's slaying,’ said Sharangrao.

‘He wasn't helping us but himself, Sharangrao,’ said the angryBrahmin, his eyes
blazing. ‘He'll be a liability for any ruler, be itDhanananda or Chandragupta! Kingship
isn't about mercy, it's aboutpower.’

‘Rakshas will be upset. Bhadrashala was his ally,’ said Katyayan.
‘How does it matter, Katyayanji? Rakshas will come running toMagadha now that he
knows Dhanananda is out of the way,’ saidChanakya.
‘But it seems Rakshas is saying he's very comfortable being in Takshila
and that he doesn't wish to return to Magadha,’ argued Sharangrao.
‘I need that rogue Rakshas back here. His mere presence as deputyprime minister will
give legitimacy to Chandragupta's reign,’
reasoned Chanakya.
‘Deputy prime minister?’ asked Chandragupta. ‘Wasn't he primeminister under
Dhanananda?’
‘Yes. But your new prime minister shall be Katyayanji —someonewho's not afraid to
tell the king what he thinks!’
The old Katyayan smiled and stood up, went before Chandraguptaand bowed to his
new master. Turning to Chanakya he said, ‘Butacharya, you can't force Rakshas to
return. He's living an extremelyluxurious life in Takshila apparently.’
‘I trust that Mehir—who I left behind in Takshila specificallyfor this very reason—has
taken care of that problem by now,’ said
Chanakya cryptically.
‘And what were your instructions to Mehir?’ asked Chandragupta.

‘To tell Rakshas that I'm holding Suvasini hostage and that she willbe held until he
returns! Leave a little sugar syrup on the floor andsee the ants flock to it! Suvasini is
my syrup and Rakshas—my ant!’
roared Chanakya.
‘Acharya! To be frank with you, it seems positively dishonest,’
commented Chandragupta.
‘Son, one should never be too upright. You've just returned froma hunt in the forest,
haven't you? Didn't you notice that it's alwaysthe straight trees that are cut down while
the crooked ones are leftstanding?’ asked Chanakya.
‘So I should sit on a throne that's won by deceit?’

‘You're the king, aren't you? You've reached the pinnacle. Youhave power and
wealth—use it wisely, O King!’ said Chanakya.
Chandragupta continued to look uncomfortable.
Chanakya spoke once again. ‘Birds don't build nests on fruitlesstrees, whores have no
love for poor men, and citizens don't obey apowerless king! Do your duty, O King!’ he
commanded as he tied hisshikha for the first time after having untied it in
Dhanananda's courtall those years ago.
Suvasini looked around the room. It was windowless but comfortable—clean,
airy, and well furnished. She tried opening the door butit was locked from
the outside. She frantically banged on the wood,
hoping that someone would hear. It was no use. There didn't seem tobe anyone
outside. Resigned to being held captive, she sat down onthe bed and began sobbing
quietly. What sort of wretched life wasthis? To be used by Rakshas, abused by
Dhanananda and misused byChanakya?
As she sat there, pondering over her pathetic life, she heard theshuffling of feet. She
then heard the sound of door bolts being lifted.
The door creaked open and two guards entered and stood to attention
on either side of the entrance. Chanakya strode in purposefully,
his hands clasped together behind his back.
Suvasini got up from the bed and rushed over to him, tears streaming
down her cheeks and her hair spilling over her face. ‘Vishnu! Iam so relieved to see
you. You've come to set me free, haven't you?
I always knew that you would be my ultimate saviour!’ she wailed,
falling to her knees before him.

‘Rise, O Suvasini,’ said Chanakya, clasping her shoulders andpulling her to her feet. ‘I
apologise for having had you locked up inthis room, but I knew that if you were visible,
you would have hadno alternative but to leave the city in exile along with Dhanananda,’
he explained.

‘I understand, Vishnu,’ she said gently. She hugged him, nestlingher face to his chest.
Her heart was beating wildly as she liftedher gaze towards his eyes, silently begging
for his love as she continued
to mentally pray for the victory that was already his. Om
tryambhakam yajamahe, sugandhim pushtivardhanam; urvarukamivabandhanam,
mrityor mukshiya maamrital.
‘Can I now leave this confined space? I want to be free again,’ shemurmured, holding
him tightly in her embrace.
‘Alas, Suvasini, although I love you, I cannot do what you ask ofme. It's in Magadha's
interest that I keep you here,’ said Chanakya,
controlling the emotion in his voice as he conveyed the news.
‘What? Dhanananda has died and you still wish to keep me lockedup? What has
happened to you, my dear Vishnu? Doesn't a normalhuman heart beat inside you
anymore? How can you do this to theonly woman that you ever loved?’ she asked,
angrily withdrawingfrom the embrace.
‘I may have loved you, my sweet Suvasini, but I love Bharat muchmore. I'm duty-bound
to protect it in whatever way that I can. Forthe moment my concern is Rakshas.
Rakshas holds nothing moredear than you, Suvasini. Do you understand my
predicament?’ askedChanakya.
‘You would hold a woman that you love as prisoner because she'sa pawn on your
chessboard?’ she howled. ‘O lord of anger and incarnation
of death! I consign you to hell for a few thousand years—tosuffer tortures for the
murders and villainies committed by you inthe name of politics! You shall have no
lineage to carry forward yourname and the knowledge that you so lust after shall have

no usefulapplication for anyone. Both you and your accursed philosophy bedamned
into oblivion!’ she cursed him as she flung herself down onthe bed and wept.
‘I don't believe in your curse, Suvasini. There are indeed
people—sorcerers and physicians—who can kill others by incantations,
become invisible or turn themselves into werewolves. There
are black magic spells and chants that can cause blindness, consump

tion, madness or even death. But the curse should be heartfelt, not
feigned. You still love me and would never want your curse to cometrue,’ said
Chanakya sadly.
‘I do love you, Vishnu, but I hate the Chanakya in you!’ she said,
crying. ‘And as for the efficacy of chants and curses, let me tell youthe power that you
so covet would never have been yours had I notprayed to Shiva for your victory every
day!’
‘I have no option but to keep you prisoner, Suvasini,’ said Chanakya.
‘As God's my witness, there's no one that I've ever loved morethan you!’
‘If my confinement stands, then so does my curse. However, because
I love you, I shall offer you a means to redemption. Severalthousand years from now, if
someone meditates upon a mantra, heshall be able to use Chanakya's knowledge
once again, but only if heuses it to advance a woman!’ she said, pointing an accusing
finger ather captor.
‘And the mantra?’ asked Chanakya.
‘Adi
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Sarab
Shakti,
Namo
Namah;
Prithum
Bhagvati,

Namo
Namah;
Kundalini
Mata
Shakti;
Mata
Shakti,
NamoNamah,’ said Suvasini. ‘If the chant is recited four hundred times a
day for over four thousand days, the orator shall have Chanakya'spowers to actualise
another leader—so long as it's a woman. In thenew age, Shakti must trump Shiva!’
Chanakya regarded her gravely. ‘As you wish, my only love. NowI have a greater duty
to still others, and other ages, and I must leaveyou one last time. My wisdom and
experience must not fade in mylifetime. History, that fickle art, may neglect to record
my thoughtsfor the greater benefit of rulers to come—and the greater wealth oftheir
nations. I must write it all down.’
He backed into the shadows and softly left the room. ‘I must writeit all,’ she strained to
hear him whispering to himself as he walkedaway. ‘My Arthashastra—my own
invention—the science of wealth.’

Chanakya sat down in his austere hut as he recited the mantra tohimself. Primal
shakti, I bow to thee; allencompassing shakti, I bow tothee; that through which God
creates, I bow to thee; creative power of thekundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.
Chanakya chanted—his eyes closed in prayer— knowing that hehad achieved his
ambition of uniting Bharat under Chandragupta.
But to achieve that he had sacrificed his one chance for love.
Suvasini went on to live till she succumbed, at the overripe age ofthirty-eight, to sexual
hyperactivity and lovelessness. Even thoughChandragupta's deputy prime minister—
Rakshas—was ready andwilling.

CHAPTER TWENTY
Present Day
T
T
he corridors of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences were
deserted at this hour. The doctor had requested Gangasagar tomeet him just before
midnight so that he might run the tests without
anyone else being any the wiser. They now sat in his office—Gangasagar
and Menon—like accused awaiting the final orderof a judge or jury.
‘You have lung cancer, Gangasagarji,’ said the doctor sympathetically.
‘But I don't smoke,’ complained Gangasagar, almost hoping his usual
powers of persuasion would get the doctor to agree that he didn'thave the dreaded
disease.
‘It isn't only smokers who get it. You live in a highly polluted atmosphere.
The black exhaust fumes of autorickshaws can be just asdeadly. It can be any number
of things that could cause it—smoking,
passive smoking, air pollution, asbestos—’
‘I never had any symptoms till now,’ said Gangasagar, defendinghis life.
‘Around twenty-five per cent of patients will not feel anything tillit's too late,’ explained
the doctor gently.

‘Will I live?’ asked Gangasagar, suddenly aware of his mortality.
The doctor shook his head slowly. ‘Miracles do happen, Gangasagarji.
Unfortunately, we did not pick up any symptoms until the cancer
had metastasised. At this stage, neither surgery nor chemotherapywill be of much
help.’
‘How much time do I have?’ asked the old Pandit.

The doctor shrugged. ‘It's difficult to predict these things. Myguess would be a month—
at most.’
‘That's long enough to make her prime minister,’ declared Gangasagar,
leaving the doctor puzzled. ‘You're to keep this informationcompletely confidential,
doctor. I'm leaving now. I have too much todo.’
‘But Gangasagarji, we must admit you to hospital. We need tomonitor your—’
‘Listen, doctor. There's nothing glorious about dying—anyone cando it. Menon will
bring me in when I'm about to meet my reluctantmaker!’ he said as he briskly walked
out of the doctor's office.
Menon hastily followed and found that his master was murmuringsoftly under his
breath ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo
Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; MataShakti, Namo
Namah.’
‘She's about to become prime minister and we're about to expose herlove child,’ said
Somany to Gangasagar. ‘The newspapers are goingto love it.’
‘I would think very carefully before doing any such thing,’ saidGangasagar speaking
softly to prevent another coughing spasm.
‘You have no leverage on us, Gangasagar. In any case, why areyou bothered? She's
ditched you for good,’ said Rungta.

‘When thousands of people pray to a stone idol, they vest in ittheir own power. It's
irrelevant what the idol thinks. Chandini is theidol and I don't care what she thinks of
me. My single-point agendais to make her prime minister.’
‘Your agenda is screwed! A conservative country like India willnever allow a woman of
loose moral character to become prime minister,
Gangasagar,’ said Somany.

‘Speaking of women with loose moral character,’ said Gangasagar,
‘I'd like to introduce both of you to a very dear friend. She's been agreat pillar of
strength to the ABNS,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Who?’ asked Somany curiously.
Anjali, the Bollywood siren, looking positively delicious in a blackbody-hugging saree
walked out. She ignored the men in the roomand sat down on the sofa and proceeded
to light her cigarette seductively.
‘As you know, we were most grateful when you gentlemen requested
Anjali to endorse Chandini during the Uttar Pradesh state assembly
elections. To express our gratitude our party nominated heras a Rajya Sabha member
from our state. Anjali has been updatingme quite regularly regarding a special
nocturnal friend who visits heralmost every night at her elegant sea-facing Mumbai
mansion,’ saidGangasagar.
Somany's face turned red. Gangasagar continued. ‘This specialfriend is apparently
affluent, but it seems that his wife is unable tomeet his needs. The question in my mind
is this: is a conservative
country like India— more particularly Somanyji's charmingwife—ready to hear of the
bedroom frolics of a tycoon?’
A livid Rungta glared at Somany. ‘I'd told you to keep your pantszipped up—that it was
essential to play safe,’ he shouted.
‘I agree. You see, one must always be safety-conscious,’ said Gangasagar,
nodding his head. ‘It seems over eighty per cent of thepeople in this world are the
result of accidents.’

‘The deal negotiated by us to give ten per cent of revenues toAgrawalji must be
terminated,’ said the grumpy Rungta, realising thewind had been taken out of his sails.
‘I agree,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Let's stop the ten-per-cent payment.’
‘That—that's wonderfully reasonable of you, Gangasagarji,’ saidSomany.

‘Now, the ten per cent that I've saved you may please be given tothe workers. Please
ensure that the credit for the whopping increaseis attributed to the ABNKU, the union
that controls over seventy-fiveper cent of your workers,’ said Gangasagar.
‘But that's preposterous! No one shares ten per cent of their revenue
with workers!’ exclaimed Rungta, loosening his collar to allowhis body heat to escape.
‘Maybe both of you would prefer that Anjali meet the workers instead.
I could invite her to the next ABNKU weekly meeting?’
The former finance minister was running late. A lecture engagementhad overrun. His
secretary assured Gangasagar that he would beback within ten minutes. ‘I'll wait,’ said
Gangasagar, seating himselfon the comfortable armchair in the study.
A few minutes later the former minister walked in. He cautiouslygreeted Gangasagar.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting,
Gangasagarji?’ he asked caustically.
‘I just wanted to keep you informed that your friends are now alsomy friends. I have put
aside my differences with Rungta & Somany,’
said Gangasagar.
‘Just because they have become your friends, doesn't make youone of mine,’ said the
ex-minister angrily. ‘You destroyed my reputation
and my career. I shall now ensure that your star student—
Chandini Gupta—shall not survive even a day as prime minister—
if she gets that far,’ said the former Cabinet member.

‘I understand completely,’ said Gangasagar. ‘Shall I call the pressconference or will
you?’ he asked as he slid over a copy of the memothat the CBDT chairman had
provided him as an insurance policy.
Hon'ble
Finance
Minister.
Investigations
into
the
activities
of
R&S
haverevealed
several
instances
of
financial
irregularity.
Various
items
on
theexpense
side
seem
to
have
been
inflated,
specifically

with
the
intentionof
reducing
their
taxable
income.
In
addition,
it
seems
that
private
part

nerships have been created with a view to parking of profits. Variousitems on the
income side have been deferred, seemingly with a view todeprive the tax authorities of
revenue. Certain transactions—particularlysale and purchase of assets—have been
carried out at questionable valuations,
thus further reducing their tax liability, at least on paper. Giventhe circumstances, I
seek your advice on how the above matter should behandled. Thanking you.
Chairman, Central Board of Direct Taxes.
The memo was followed by the finance minister's handwrittenreply.
We need to be sympathetic and gentle in our dealings with them.
Without their support no government can hope to remain in power.
Suggest that adequate flexibility be shown. Regards. Finance Minister.
The purohit of the Hindu shelter was happy to receive an honouredguest. Gangasagar
sat down on the mattress offered to him andasked, ‘How's your son's education getting
along? Did the admissionto the medical school help?’
The purohit smiled. He was perfectly bald, his face was wrinkledlike a prune and his
mouth bore no teeth. His toothless smile said itall. ‘Yes, Gangasagarji. He shall soon
graduate, thanks to your generosity.’
‘Do you have the papers? The ones that you didn't give to thatghastly reporter who
was tracking the story?’ asked Gangasagar.
The old man handed over a bundle of yellowed postcards and letters.
They were mostly love notes— between a pregnant mother andan absentee father.
The evidence was clinching.

‘Thank you,’ said Gangasagar.
The priest grinned a toothless grin.
The former premier and his illegitimate daughter were in Simla. Theweather was cold
and a wonderful scent of pine was in the air. Gan

gasagar had made the journey with some difficulty, but he figuredthat the cold
mountain air would do him some good.
The hosts were surprised to receive their guest but were cordialnonetheless. As the
servant brought hot apple cider and paneerpakoras, Gangasagar handed over the
bundle of papers to them.
‘These belong to both of you. No one has any right to be prying intothe personal lives
of a family,’ he said.
The former statesman looked at the papers and a faint smile appeared
on his lips. He recalled how much in love he'd been withthe sadhvi's mother. She was
an incredible woman—intelligent andbeautiful—like their daughter.
‘Thank you, Gangasagarji, but why are you doing this? You havejust lost your leverage
on me,’ said the former prime minister as thesadhvi appeared to meditate in silence.
‘I didn't need all of them. I've just kept a few. I've placed them ina safe-deposit vault
and the key has been left as per my will to you.
You shall receive it once my will is probated,’ said Gangasagar.
‘But why?’ asked the sadhvi, opening her eyes. ‘Getting a willprobated in India can
take a few years. Even if I die tomorrow, itstill gives Chandini enough time to
consolidate her position as primeminister.’
The caretaker prime minister's house wore a festive look. Despitehaving lost the
elections, his party had inked an alliance withChandini. Their MPs would support
Chandini's bid for prime ministerbut would want some Cabinet berths in return.
Gangasagar lookeddepressed. The caretaker prime minister was not fooled by it.
Heknew that depression was merely anger without the energy.

‘I know that you have signed a deal with Chandini,’ said Gangasagar,
‘and it is my hope that you will not pull down her governmentprematurely’.

‘Why should that concern you?’ asked the caretaker PM. ‘I'm toldyou and your protégé
are no longer on speaking terms.’
‘Ah. Yes. We do fight occasionally, but only to mislead others,’
said Gangasagar, ‘and it worked. You would never have extendedsupport to her if we
had not fought.’ Gangasagar continued observing
the face of the caretaker PM as it turned red with rage.
‘I shall now show both you and your puppet what I am capable of,’
thundered the caretaker premier. ‘I have enough explosive materialto blow you and
your protégé sky-high! A trust fund was establishedby you in the Channel Islands to
meet the education and living expenses
of the bastard boy. I have enough documentary proof to backit up. I'm going to use it to
withdraw support no sooner than shebecomes prime minister. She'll go down in history
as the shortestserving
prime minister ever!’
‘It's unfortunate that you choose to behave like that,’ said Gangasagar,
almost like a mother admonishing her child.
‘I want her to step aside. She cannot take the oath of office. Thiscountry does not need
a slut at the helm of affairs!’ shouted thepremier.
‘I would suggest that you reconsider your position very carefully,
prime minister,’ said Gangasagar softly.
‘Why should I?’ shouted the prime minister.
‘Because I have with me the papers of an account in Liechtenstein.

It received payments from North Korea and Libya for designs of sensitive
nuclear technology— gas centrifuges—I'm told. The odd thingis that the beneficiary of
the account is you. So I would be rathercareful about withdrawing support for the entire
term of this newadministration.’

The ambulance wailed as it sped through the dusty streets of Kanpur.
In the back, a medic placed an oxygen mask on Gangasagar's faceand administered
an IV of sodium chloride. The old Pandit had fallen
down after getting up from his morning prayers and Menon hadphoned for the
ambulance in panic. The doctor from the All IndiaInstitute of Medical Sciences in New
Delhi had suggested that Gangasagarji
be flown down to Delhi but the old man was adamant. Hewas staying firmly put at
home— Kanpur.
Menon sat beside the Pandit who was struggling to take in airthrough the mask and
held his hand tenderly. There were tears in hiseyes. Gangasagar was everything in
Menon's world. Despite his critical
state, the old Pandit observed Menon's anguish and began to saysomething. ‘Primal—’
he began, but the effort involved in the simpleact of breathing prevented him from
talking further.
A few hours later, the old man was settled in his room in the hospitaland regained a
little strength. Menon and Agrawalji sat by his sidewhile Gangasagar continued to
recite his prayers.
‘Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee;
that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of thekundalini; mother
of all, to thee I bow.’
The next morning, he lay propped up in bed and asked Menon, ‘Ihope you didn't tell
her?’
‘I didn't,’ lied Menon. He had phoned Chandini the moment theyhad arrived in the
hospital.

‘I need to meet our friend at the Intelligence Bureau,’ whisperedGangasagar hoarsely,
to Menon. He knew that the doctor had bannedvisitors to Gangasagar—even the
slightest exertion was not recommended
in his condition. Agrawalji reminded Gangasagar gently ofthe doctor's orders.
‘He can't kill my ills with pills and instead chooses to kill me withhis bills! Screw
doctor's orders. Find me the IB director.’

Hameeda walked in to the filthy room and sat down at the man'sdesk without waiting
for an invitation to do so. The room's wallswere of exposed brick and concrete. Above
the desk, a naked bulbhung eerily. The room had a vaguely musty smell—stale smoke
fromthe man's cheroots. He took one look at her and turned his head
away in disgust.
‘Why have you come here, chhakka?’ he asked using the derogatory
term for transsexuals.
‘Certainly not to make love to you, sweetie,’ said Hameeda, fallinginto the usual
eunuch banter effortlessly. ‘I've not come to beg. I'mhere to buy.’
‘What do you wish to buy, chhakka?’ he asked.
‘A gun,’ said Hameeda.
‘Sorry, I don't sell guns to guys without dicks. A gun is a very malething, y'know. No
shemales.’
‘Listen, ratface, I am willing to pay you fair price for a Stinger .22Magnum pen gun. If
you don't sell it to me I'll get Sachla Devi tocome in here and wave her crotch at you
everyday. Perhaps you'dprefer that!’
The man grunted. Why did he get all the weirdos of the world ascustomers? He
needed a change of occupation, he thought to himselfas he started searching his
boxes for the gun the eunuch wanted.
Outside, an agent of the Intelligence Bureau reported what he hadobserved to the
director.

Hameeda's next stop was a little less seedy. It was a contraband dealer's
store. The owner sighed as Hameeda walked in. ‘You want somemoney, take it,’ he
said handing out a fifty-rupee note, ‘But pleaseget the hell out of here. My customers
will disappear.’
‘It's your lucky day,’ said Hameeda. ‘I'm here to pay you. I need a
used Asahi Pentax 35mm SLR and am willing to pay a fair price.’

‘Why have you come to me, fifty-fifty?’ he asked, using the streetslang for eunuchs,
‘There are other dealers who could get it for you.’
‘But no one has a sweeter expression, assface,’ said Hameedacaustically.
The owner sighed again. Why did he have to deal with the dregs ofhumanity? He
began wistfully thinking of how good a snort of cokewould feel as he sifted through the
cartons, searching for the camerathat the fifty-fifty wanted.
Outside, an agent of the Intelligence Bureau reported what he hadobserved to the
director.
Hameeda was bent over the little wooden table in her room. In front
of her lay the used Pentax camera disassembled besides the Stinger.22 Magnum pen
gun. She gutted the camera, gently lowering theStinger in place of the camera's
innards. She needed to ensure it wasproperly cocked via the camera's film-advance
lever. It would shootby pressing the shutter release button— breaking the glass lens
elements
in front.
Towards one corner of her table lay the pass she had stolen fromthe prime minister's
private secretary. She could only hope that thebar code still worked and would get her
into Rashtrapati Bhavan. Ifvisitor's passes were allowed access to North Block, South
Block andRashtrapati Bhavan, it seemed unlikely that passes belonging to senior
functionaries would not.
On one wall was a nail on which was suspended a coat hanger.
The suit, shirt and tie provided by the private secretary had beenlaundered and
pressed and was ready for use. Of what use is your dying

to me, Gangasagar? thought Hameeda. It has taken away the opportunity
for revenge. Alas, it shall now have to be your beloved Chandini.

The Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapati Bhavan—built to resemble a largejewel box—was
actually a simple rectangle, thirty-two metres inlength and twenty metres in width. The
most striking feature of thehall was that it had a painted ceiling. The central painting—
in Persian
style— depicted a royal hunting expedition. Originally built asthe state ballroom for the
British Viceroy, Ashoka Hall also had awooden dance floor. It was ironic that prime
ministers and otherministers took their sacrosanct oath of office and secrecy in
thisparticular hall. After all, prime ministers needed a killer instinct toreach the position
first. The rest of their tenure was coloured by thegreat dance of Indian democracy—
defections, rebellions, and general
chaos.
The hall was packed to capacity as elected members of the
government-in-waiting, as well as the key members of the Opposition,
gathered for the historic ceremony symbolising peaceful transfer
of power from one civilian government to another. Chandiniwalked in, dressed in her
usual off-white cotton saree, trimmed with
a pale gold border, with no jewellery except for a pair of simplesolitaire diamond
earrings. The assembled crowd instantly gave hera standing ovation. She was the
victor arriving to claim the spoilsof war. Chandini gratefully acknowledged the ovation
and then satin the front row along with the chief minister of Bihar. The two hadproved
to be a deadly and unbeatable combination. Together theyhad swept the Lok Sabha
polls in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, the twolargest states of India. The remaining seats
required for a workingmajority had been helpfully provided by the caretaker PM under
theassumption Chandini and Gangasagar were foes.
The bugles sounded and the presidential guard marched in, escorting
the president of India to the hall. The band started playingthe Indian national anthem
and the entire Indian political leadershipstood in respect, ensuring that their faces were
appropriately sombrefor television cameras that loved close-ups. Almost a third of

thehall had been cordoned off for the press corps. Among them was aneffeminate
young man with a Pentax camera that never seemed toflash.

Gangasagar watched the scene unfolding at Rashtrapati Bhavan. ThePresident was
administering the oath of office to Chandini. She quiteobviously had the text of the oath
before her on a single sheet of paper
but did not seem to need it. It was almost as if she had spent herentire life preparing
for the occasion. In her crisp Oxford accent shewas saying ‘I, Chandini Gupta, do
swear in the name of God that Iwill bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of
India as bylaw established, that I will uphold the sovereignty and integrity ofIndia, that I
will faithfully and conscientiously discharge my dutiesas prime minister and that I will
do right to all manner of people inaccordance with the Constitution and the law without
fear or favour,
affection or illwill.’
The godfather smiled. Without fear, favour, affection or ill will!
Ridiculous! The old man continued mumbling his prayers, a labouredeffort to get the
words out. It said ‘Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing
shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bowto thee; creative power of
the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.’
He saw his protégé—now sworn in as the eighteenth prime minister
of India—fold her hands together in a humble gesture of acknowledgement
to the television cameras and then stumble backwards.
The red stain that spread on her left shoulder—almost in slow motion—
had been fired from a Stinger .22 Magnum. The tiny case ofthe .22 and the subsonic
velocities made it wellsuited for use with a
Ruger 10/22 silencer. It was reliable, deadly, and almost completelysilent.
The ornate Ashoka Hall of Rashtrapathi Bhavan exploded intopandemonium as shots
were fired and hundreds of India's politicalleadership ducked for cover. A few minutes
later, the director of theIntelligence Bureau had the lifeless body of Hameeda removed

asparamedics rushed to the bloody and comatose body of Chandinithat lay on the
wooden dance floor of Ashoka Hall.
The dance had started.

Pandit Gangasagar Mishra, watching the scene unfold on television,
told Agrawalji, ‘I need you to ensure that the note that I've writtenis sent to the lawyer
in Guernsey. That's my final instruction to you,
my friend.’
Agrawalji and Menon remained standing by his bed. Gangasagarclosed his eyes in
prayer, and didn't bother opening them again.

Epilogue
She was clad in her trademark off-white saree. A few exceptions toher usual attire had
been made, though. She wore silk instead of cotton,
because of the autumn chill. She wore a Burberry's coat over hersaree and had
replaced her usual summer slippers with stockings andJimmy Choo shoes. Her face
bore no trace of age, but her eyes conveyed
another story. They were beautiful emerald-green eyes that hadseen too much. There
were moments when her eyes wished they couldstop observing the dark side of
human nature and simply enjoy thebeauty of life, like this walk in Hyde Park.
By her side, was a young man of twenty-one. He wore a blue SavileRow suit with a
green striped Oxford tie. His green eyes matchedhis attire perfectly. His wavy hair was
neatly groomed, save for thestrands that hung over his forehead. He walked by her
side, holdingher hand in his.
The previous night Chandini had attended an event hosted by theBritish prime minister
in honour of her visit. The great sitar maestro,
Radhika Shankaran, had teamed up with Britain's hottest violinprodigy from the Royal
Academy of Music, Harry Richardson, whowas now walking with her. In an interwoven
dance between violinand sitar, Radhika and Harry had spun new fabric from the yarn
ofancient Indian ragas, each taking the other's notes and rendering themwith their own
unique perspective. It had been an absolutely breathtaking
performance and both musicians had been accorded a standingovation by Chandini
and the British prime minister.
‘Why did the Prime Minister hold your hand and help you up?’
asked Harry.

‘Because his wife wasn't with him?’ she joked. Age hadn't diminished
her mischievousness. They continued to stroll while a contingent
of bodyguards walked in front and behind them, maintaining adiscreet distance.
‘He could've told me I was your son sooner,’ said Harry. ‘If not he,
then you.’

‘Honestly, I didn't know. Uncle Ganga and Josephine were theonly ones who did. He
built it into the trust deed that your parentagewould be revealed only to you— not me—
at the age of twenty-one,’
she said. ‘I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you, Harry. I didn't evenknow you existed.’
‘And are you going to keep me a secret?’ asked Harry, hurtingfrom the realisation that
he had been viewed by everyone as a liability
in her political career.
‘It's my third term as prime minister of India, Harry,’ she said. ‘I'vehad a long innings—
too long, some would say. Uncle Ganga used tosay politicians are like diapers, they
need to be changed frequently,’
she laughed. ‘What's important to me is that I have a son!’
‘I always felt the absence of a father. Mum—Josephine— alwaystold me my father was
of Indian descent and that he died in an aircrash,’ said Harry.
‘I guess she had to explain the dashing good looks you got fromyour mother,’ said
Chandini, trying to lighten the conversation.
‘In my view, I've now got two mums,’ said Harry smiling.
‘And both of them adore you,’ said Chandini squeezing his hand.
‘And so does Radhika Shankaran, by the looks she was giving youwhile performing
last night.’ They sat down on one of the benches,
allowing the crisp air to hit their faces.
Harry took a sealed envelope out from the inside pocket of hisjacket and handed it to
Chandini. It had her name written in Gangasagar's
bold handwriting. ‘This was left with the solicitors. I was instructed

to give it to you,’ he said. She opened it carefully and pulledout the note and began to
read it.
My dear Chandini,
I just wanted to apologise. I couldn't ask the marksman— the directorof the Intelligence
Bureau—to go for the right shoulder again. It hadalready been used in Allahbad. The
director had assured me that
Hameeda's contraption wouldn't work but that they would get rid of himonce and for all.
He also assured me that your wound would be superfi

cial. Alas, these are the sacrifices one must make for one's political career.
In your case it's been both your shoulders and both your lovers.
I pray that when you read this letter you are still Prime Minister—itwould prove that my
strategy worked. Our country loves sacrifice and renunciation.
These are adorable qualities that can cement one's standingamong the people. To
remain standing one often has to fall. It is a pitythat our last conversation—our staged
argument—had to be for the benefit
of our political adversaries and electronic eavesdroppers. Otherwise, Iwould have liked
to tell you that I am proud of you.
I'm assuming that Harry is sitting beside you when you read this letter.
I had to keep him a secret from you to protect your political career. Asfor Geoffrey—I
had no qualms about doing what I did. He was bad news.
Shankar was another matter, though. I think that he truly did love you,
but often love can be more ruinous than hate. Elizabeth I ruled Englandby transforming
herself into the Virgin Queen and I needed you to do the
same.
Josephine has told dear Harry that she christened him that because hisfather's
nickname had been Harry and she wanted to perpetuate the connection.
What she hadn't told him was that ‘Hari’ also means ‘green’ inHindi and that she had
chosen the name because of the boy's emeraldgreen
eyes—identical to yours. As you can see, no expense has beenspared to
nurture him into a young man you can be proud of.
The unity and integrity of India requires strong leaders and oftenthese leaders must
play dirty games. Chanakya did that for hisprotégé—Chandragupta, and I did it for my
protégé—Chandini Gupta.
Yes, Shakti trumped Shiva— a sign of our times. I have no regrets.

Chandini folded the letter and stood up. ‘Are we on for dinner atLe Caprice?’ she
asked.
‘I'd love that, but can we do it tomorrow instead? I have to meet
someone,’ said Harry.
‘Who?’
‘Radhika Shankaran,’ said Harry, blushing slightly.
‘I guess I'll just have to dine on my own,’ said Chandini in mockdespair.

‘I'm told the food's quite bad,’ said Harry.
‘At Le Caprice?’ asked Chandini.
‘At Number Ten. His wife's out of town,’ said Harry.

Acknowledgements & References
Writers of historical fiction are not historians and they must dependon others for
historical information. The narratives about Chanakyaand Chandragupta in
Chanakya's
Chant
are fictitious although theirevents and lives depicted may possibly have roots in history
or mythology.
Several books have been written about Chanakya and hiswork—the Arthashastra. I
depended on the following sources to construct
my fictional version of Chanakya.
•
Three
Men
of
Destiny, by A. S. Panchapakesa Ayyar, Published1939, C. Coomarasawmy Naidu &
Sons (Madras)
•
Chanakya, by B. K. Chaturvedi, Published 2004, DiamondPublications, New Delhi.
•
To
Uphold
the
World—The
Message
of
Ashoka
&

Kautilya
for
the21stCentury, by Bruce Rich, Published 2008, Penguin Books,
England.
•
Rule
the
World—The
Way
I
Did, by Prof. Shrikant Prasoon, Published
2009, Pustak Mahal, New Delhi
•
Chanakya—His
Teachings
and
Advice, by Pundit AshwaniSharma, Published 2009, Jaico Publishing House, Mumbai
•
Chanakya—A
Great
Visionary, by P. Khurana, Published 2008,
Indiana Publishing House, New Delhi
•
Chanakya
Neeti, by B. K. Chaturvedi, Published 2009, Diamond
Pocket Books Pvt. Ltd., New Delhi
•
Building
an
Empire—Chanakya

Revisited, by Mohan Mishra,
Published 2005, Rupa & Co., New Delhi
•
Kautilya—The
Arthashastra, by L. N. Rangarajan, Published
1992, Penguin Books India
•
Canakya
On
Management, by Ashok R. Garde, Published 2008,
Jaico Publishing House, Mumbai In the course of writing thisbook, I used several
internet resources for background information.
The websites that I used most were:
• http://www.google.com/
• http://www.wikipedia.org/
• http://brainyquote.com/

•
http://www.britannica.com
•
http://thinkexist.com/quotes/
•
http://www.statemaster.com/encyclopedia/
•
http://www.anecdotage.com
In addition, I depended upon various online resources to build manyof my fictional
constructs. Specifically, some of the URL's from whichI drew information were:
•
http://presidentofindia.nic.in/
•
http://pmindia.nic.in/
•
http://goidirectory.nic.in/exe.htm
•
http://164.100.47.132/LssNew/our%20parliament/
par14.htm
•
http://www.hinduism.co.za/chanakya.htm
•
http://www.livius.org/
•
http://www.freeindia.org/biographies/greatpersonalities/
chanakya/index.htm
•
http://www.sfusd.edu/schwww/sch618/india/Clothing.
html

•
http://www.whereincity.com/articles/historical/1673.html
•
http://www.rationalistinternational.net/article/2008/
20080310/en_1.html
•
http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/thanissaro/bmc2/
bmc2.ch01.html
•
http://conservapedia.com/English_coronation_oath
•
http://factoidz.com/the-aghori-hinduism-cannibalismandimmortality/
•
http://www.prabhatmishra.com/2009/03/street-foodjointsat-
kanpur.html
•
http://www.tsawebworld.com/story_indianHistory.html
•
http://www.theequitydesk.com/forum/forum_
posts.asp?TID=488
•
http://www.historicflyingclothing.com/archive.php
•
http://accuratedemocracy.com/d_stv.htm
•
http://www.deaddog.com/?p=624

•
http://www.india-seminar.com/2007/575/
575_veena_talwar_oldenburg.htm
•
http://www.twocircles.net/book/export/html/135411
•
http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/
article6336535.ece
•
http://www.ukstudentlife.com/Personal/Manners.htm
•
http://www.st-hildas.ox.ac.uk/
•
http://www.oxford-union.org/
•
http://www.ecgi.org/conferences/fese_efmc2005/
ou_rules.htm
•
http://business.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?262143
•
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/education/article3257539.
ece
•
http://www.hrdc.net/sahrdc/inthenews/2004/
05-Aug04.htm
•
http://www.desitwist.com/
•
http://www.madinpursuit.com/Family/General/abortionist.
htm

•
http://www.ox.ac.uk/
•
http://www.oubc.org.uk/
•
http://www.freedict.com/onldict/lat.html
•
http://upcmo.up.nic.in/
•
http://parliamentofindia.nic.in/lsdeb/lsdeb.htm
•
http://www.crikey.com.au/2009/09/17/mr-speaker-on-apoint-
of-order-question-time-has-always-been-a-farce/
•
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2721615/
•
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/
•
http://bbc.co.uk
•
http://www.cnn.com
•
http://www.etoncollege.com
•
http://www.gfsc.gg/
•
http://www.indianexpress.com/news/riggingpossiblethrough-
evms-exbureaucrat/484802/
•
http://www.medicinenet.com/lung_cancer/article.htm

I spent several weeks watching the entire forty-seven episodes of theseries,
Chanakya, directed by Dr Chandraprakash Dwivedi. The serieswas a starting point for
developing the Chanakya
storyline.
In a section of the book, Chanakya engages in light banter withhis students. Some of
the ideas expressed therein are adaptationsof quotes from the series Yes
Minister
and Yes
Prime
Minister
byJonathyn Lynn & Antony Jay. The specific quotes that have been adapted
from the series are:
‘People do not want to know how welfare money has actuallybeen spent. Nobody asks
the priest what happen to the ritual offeringafter the ceremony.’
‘When anybody says “It's not the money, it's the principle” theymean it's the money.’
‘If people don't know what you're doing, they don't know whatyou're doing wrong.’
‘Government is about principles. And the principle is, never act onprinciple.’
‘Politicians must be allowed to panic. They need activity. It is theirsubstitute for
achievement.’
‘A good political speech is not one in which you can prove thatthe man is telling the
truth; it is one where no one else can prove heis lying.’
‘If you do not want Cabinet to spend too long discussing

something, make it last on the agenda before lunch.’
‘Britain should always be on the side of law and justice, so long aswe don't allow it to
affect our foreign policy.’
‘Ministers are ignorant not because we do not give them the rightanswers but because
they do not ask us the right questions.’
In the story some key quotes attributed to Chanakya, Gangasagar andother characters
have been inspired from other sources. These are asfollows:
‘Any clod can have the facts, having an opinion is an art.’ Charles
McCabe.

‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’ BenjaminFranklin.
‘I am a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work themore I have of it.’ Thomas
Jefferson.
‘It has been well said, that a hungry man is more interested in foursandwiches, than
four freedoms.’ Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr.
‘If we desire respect for the law, we must first make the law respectable.’
Louis D. Brandeis.
‘I have come to the conclusion that politics is too serious a matterto be left to the
politicians.’ Charles de Gaulle.
‘It can therefore be said that politics is war without bloodshedwhile war is politics with
bloodshed.’ Mao Tse Tung in his On Protracted
War (May 1938), Selected Works, Vol. II.
‘You can get much farther with a kind word and a gun than youcan with a kind word
alone.’ Al Capone.
‘Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because
your character is what you really are, while your reputation ismerely what others think
you are.’ Dale Carnegie.
‘God will forgive me. It's his job.’ Heinrich Heine. ‘The early birdgets the worm but the
second mouse gets the cheese.’ Jon Hammond.
‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it,

and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbiddento itself.’ Oscar
Wilde.
‘The difference between pornography and erotica is lighting.’
Gloria Leonard.
‘Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, butit gets you nowhere.’
Dorothy Galyean.
‘A free society is a society where it is safe to be unpopular.’ Adlai
Stevenson.
‘Sometimes the majority only means that all the fools are on thesame side.’ Claude
McDonald.

‘Married men live longer than single men. But married men are alot more willing to die.’
Johnny Carson.
‘The only certainty life contains is death.’ Patricia Briggs. ‘A man
on a date wonders if he'll get lucky. The woman already knows’ is aquote of Monica
Piper.
‘The object of war is not to die for your country but to make theother bastard die for his’
is a famous view of General George Patton.
‘Every battle is won or lost before it is ever fought’ is a quote fromSun Tsu's The Art of
War.
‘When you've got 'em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’
Charles Colson.
‘I like long walks, especially when they're taken by people whoannoy me.’ Fred Allen.
‘Eagles may soar high, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.’
John Benfield.
‘Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever theygo.’ Oscar Wilde.
‘All the things I really like to do are either illegal, immoral, or fattening.’
Alexander Wolcott.
‘When choosing between two evils, always choose the one youhaven't tried yet.’ Mae
West.
‘Never interfere with an enemy while he's in the process of destroying

himself.’ Napoleon Bonaparte.
‘Don't be humble. You're not that great.’ Golda Meir. ‘A little inaccuracy
sometimes saves a ton of explanation.’H.H. Munro. ‘Politicians
are like diapers; they need to be changed often and for thesame reason.’ Mark Twain.
‘We have no eternal allies and we have no perpetual enemies. Ourinterests are eternal
and perpetual, and those interests it is our dutyto follow.’ Henry John Temple.
‘I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is preparedfor the great ordeal of
meeting me is another matter.’ Sir Winston
Churchill.

‘There
is
no
such
thing
as
public
opinion.
There
is
only
publishedopinion.’
Sir Winston Churchill.
‘It
is
often
easier
to
ask
for
forgiveness
than
to
ask
for
permission.’
Grace Murray Hopper.

‘Everybody
wants
to
go
to
heaven,
but
nobody
wants
to
die.’
Peter
Tosh.
‘A
single
death
is
a
tragedy;
a
million
deaths
is
a
statistic.’
JosephStalin.